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A  long  haired  creature  lead- 
ing a  fox  by  a  string. 


Brittany  with  Bergere 


BY 


WM.  M.  E.  WHITELOCK 


WITH  PICTURES  BY 

DECIMA 


jO|ARTletV6RJTAr^ 


BOSTON:  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLARK  CO.,  LIMITED 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Gorham   Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A, 


DC 

611 


To 
CHARLES  TOWNSEND  COPELAND 

Guide,  Philosopher,  and  Friend 
This  Book  Is  Dedicated 


f^n*^  ^p.O 


FOREWORD 

I  HAVE  not  aimed  in  this  little  book  to  give 
a  comprehensive  picture  of  Brittany  and  the 
Bretons;  such  a  picture  was  not  in  the  focus  of  a 
three  weeks'  trip  in  a  dog-cart.  Far  less  have  I 
endeavored  to  set  forth  the  customs,  the  history, 
the  monuments  of  the  country;  these  have  been 
already  amply  recorded.  Rather  have  I  sought 
to  imprison  the  elusive  spirit  of  a  happy,  unfet- 
tered ramble,  to  sketch  lightly  the  color,  the 
warmth,  the  music  of  it  all  —  truly,  an  almost  im- 
possible task  for  cold  prose.  Yet.  if  I  have  been 
able  to  give  some  faint  idea  of  the  magic  charm 
of  Brittany,  its  simple,  unspoiled  people  and  their 
simple,  placid  life;  if  I  have  been  able  to  hint  at 
the  joy  of  such  a  trip  as  ours  and  the  ease  with 
which  it  is  made;  if,  above  all,  I  have  been  able 
to  suggest  unrealized  possibihties  to  those  who 
love  to  see  a  country  as  it  really  is,  I  shall  feel  that 
I  have  not  entirely  failed  in  my  purpose.  At  least 
I  can  know  that  the  pleasure  of  writing  these  few 
chapters  has  not  been  wholly  selfish. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Most  Charming  Man  in  the  World  ....  15 

11     We  Reach  Rennes 18 

III  Introducing  Bergere 24 

IV  The  Open   Road 28 

V     Hede 34 

VI     The   First  Menhir 44 

VII     Le    Mont    Saint-Michel 54 

VIII     The   Gray  Sea  and  a   Calm  Stream 72 

IX     We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker 89 

X     Moncontour 102 

XI     We  Make  Several  Mistakes in 

XII     The  Pardon  of  Saint-Amateur 123 

XIII  A  Charming  Hole 130 

XIV  The  Ejection  of  Jean   Marie  Pihuit 138 

XV     The  Little   Sisters 142 

XVI     The   End   of  the   Road 150 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A  long  haired  creature  leading  a  fox  by  a  string      Frontispiece 

Deux  dubonnets 15 

II  y  a  un  "  clergyman  "  dans  men  compartiment  ....  21 

Mam'selle  at   Hede        35 

A  peculiarly  unbeautiful  infant 41 

Joseph  Leroux 51 

A  pig  in  a  poke 57 

La  fille  de  Mere  Lambert 63 

Do  they  cost  very  much,  the  photographs? 67 

But  no  —  she  had  not  visited  the  town  —  the  hill  was  too 
steep 79 

All  the  starving  cats  and  dogs         83 

The  awful  deed  was  accomplished 93 

Another  nutcracker,  by  the  way 99 

I  was  obliged  to  kiss  the  brat 113 

Finally  came  the  gymnastes 125 


BRITTANY  WITH  BERGERE 


Deux  Dubonnets. 

BRITTANY    WITH    BERGERE 

I 

The  Most  Charming  Man  in  the  fVorld 

THE  planning  is  usually  the  best  part  of  a  trip. 
That  is  what  Decima  —  Decima  is  my  sister 
—  and  I  thought  when  we  decided  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  abroad.  First  came  the  question  of  the 
country;  which  finally  reduced  itself  to  France. 
Then  there  was  the  particular  Province  —  for  to 
attempt  to  see  too  much  is  to  miss  everything. 
Brittany  triumphed  over  the  "  Chateau  Country," 
now  worn  almost  to  fragments  by  countless  tourists 
and  innumerable  guidebooks;  over  Paris  more 
American  than  French  in  the  summer  months; 
over  the  Gothic  temptations  of  Normandy.     Yet 

IS 


1 6  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

why  Brittany  should  have  triumphed,  Le  Bon  Dieu 
himself  alone  knew,  for  we  certainly  didn't;  it 
could  only  have  been  a  stroke  of  Genius. 

Even  with  the  definite  region  decided  upon,  the 
delightful  planning  was  only  just  begun.  Next 
came  the  problem  of  locomotion.  Trains  were 
far  too  prosaic  for  so  romantic  a  trip;  automo- 
biles we  despised  as  unworthy  —  though  privately 
we  knew  that  we  couldn't  have  afforded  one  if  we 
had  wanted  it:  bicycles  were  the  things!  We 
would  order  them  in  Paris  and  have  them  sent  to 
us  at  Boulogne  and  .   .   . 

But  here  Genius  made  a  bad  play  and  nearly 
upset  the  whole  game.  Of  course,  one  of  us  had 
to  get  ill  and  leave  matters  in  the  hands  of  the 
other,  and,  of  course,  the  other  did  not  like  to 
take  all  the  responsibility.  So  when  we  met  on 
board  the  steamship  Friedrich  Wilhelm,  all  we 
knew  was  that  we  were  bound  for  Boulogne,  even- 
tually for  Brittany,  and  that  the  convalescent  must 
not  ride  a  bicycle. 

Despair  fell  upon  us.  Cabins  Nos.  102  and 
104  were  shrouded  in  gloom;  we  spoke  in  mono- 
syllables. My  meek  suggestion  that  we  emulate 
Stevenson  by  hiring  a  donkey  and  cart  and  drive 
around  the  whole  coast  of  Brittany  in  three  weeks 
Vv^as  scornfully  (and  I  see  now,  quite  justly) 
scouted  as  absurd.  I  relapsed  into  mournful  si- 
lence   and    regretted    that    I    ever   came.     Then 


The  Most  Charming  Man  ij 

Genius  retrieved  itself:  we  met  The  Most  Charm- 
ing Man  in  the  World. 

He  was  at  one  time  president  of  the  Alliance 
Franqaise  in  New  York,  had  been  made  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Legion  d'Honneur  for  his  services  to 
the  French  in  that  city,  possessed  an  unlimited 
fund  of  information  about  Brittany  and  was  per- 
fectly delightful.  He  had  never  made,  he  said, 
such  a  trip  as  we  were  hoping  to  make  and  he 
doubted  if  we'd  cover  very  much  ground  with  a 
donkey;  but,  unless  we  minded  a  daily  rain,  a  horse 
and  carriage  were  perfectly  feasible.  Our  sense 
of  the  romantic  was  a  little  shocked,  but  the  prac- 
tical in  us  seized  the  suggestion  with  avidity  and 
asked  countless  questions.  "  You'd  better  start 
from  Rennes,"  said  The  Most  Charming  Man  in 
the  World.  "  I'll  give  you  a  card  to  my  friend 
Anatole  Le  Braz  who  lives  there  —  I'm  sure  he'd 
be  glad  to  help  you.  He's  really  a  delightful 
fellow."  Having  just  read  "  An  Pays  des  Par- 
dons," the  name  of  the  author  was  as  magic  to  our 
ears.  Thus  the  voyage  ended  in  happy  expecta- 
tion. 


II 

We  Reach  Rennes 

PORTS  are  much  the  same  the  world  over,  and 
landing  is  an  invariably  tedious  matter.  Bou- 
logne was  no  exception.  A  crowded  ride  on  a 
tender  {un  remorqueiir!)  with  the  attendant 
struggle  in  a  tiny  office  for  railroad  reservations; 
the  usual  absurd  formula  of  a  customs  examina- 
tion by  an  unruffled,  handsomely  uniformed  official 
in  the  midst  of  a  surging  mob;  and  then  an  hour 
to  wait  in  the  little  depot  on  the  Quai  Chanzy 
with  nothing  to  absorb  one's  attention  but  a  large 
station  clock  on  whose  smug  face  a  painter  was 
busily  inscribing  the  numbers  one  to  twenty-four. 
Everywhere  vendors  were  endeavoring  —  and 
usually  successfully  —  to  entrap  the  unwary. 
We  helped  to  swell  the  number  by  the  purchase 
of  a  luscious  looking  little  basket  of  cherries,  at 
an  exorbitant  price.  I  explained  the  high  cost 
to  Decima  as  due  to  the  comparatively  small  size 
of  the  country  and  purchased  them  with  a  gran- 
diloquent air  and  a  slight  remuneration  to  the 
commere  who  sold  them.  Underneath  the  layer 
of  fresh  green  leaves  that  supported  the  topmost 
berries    we     found  —  excelsior!     And    the    old 

i8 


We  Reach  Rennes  19 

woman  had  the  Impudence  to  come  back  later  and 
insist  I'd  given  her  a  Greek  franc.  The  Most 
Charming  Man  in  the  World  merely  smiled  at 
this  example  of  French  perfidy  and  said, 

"  That's  not  cheating,  it's  merely  putting  the 
best  face  on  things."     I  fear  he  was  prejudiced. 

At  last  the  whistle  shrieked  in  the  familiar 
high  pitched  tones  and  we  bumped  and  rattled 
away  from  the  sea,  dotted  with  little  brown-sailed 
fishing  smacks.  Away  we  went  from  the  docks 
with  their  horde  of  grasping  commissionaires ,  out 
past  the  main  station,  by  countless  box  cars  quaintly 
labeled  according  to  their  capacity  for  men  or 
horses,  followed  by  ragged  urchins  whining  for 
"  un  p'tit  sou,  M'sieu,  tin  p'tit  sou,"  past  all  the 
hideous  factories  and  brickyards  of  the  suburbs  of 
a  commercial  town.  Then  we  slid  quietly  into  the 
country. 

And  such  a  country!  The  wonderful  smiling 
country,  the  land  of  gardens.  The  fields,  a  glori- 
ous mass  of  green  and  blue  and  red,  broken  by 
an  occasional  wooded  patch,  but  usually  every 
scrap  of  ground  under  cultivation  —  even  the  nar- 
row strips  beside  the  tracks  flecked  with  little 
tents  of  new  mown  hay  —  and  splashed  with  color 
from  the  hand  of  the  Great  Painter.  Here  and 
there  a  road,  guarded  by  a  double  row  of  bending 
poplars  stretches  like  a  golden  ribbon  towards 
the     rolling     horizon.     Everywhere     flowers  — 


20  Brittany  with  Bergere 

glowing  poppies,  dainty  bleuets,  daisies,  tiny  morn- 
ing-glories clinging  to  the  very  rocks  of  the  road- 
bed, and  sometimes  a  dash  of  white  water  lilies 
on  the  surface  of  a  calm  pool.  Now  we  pass  a 
swamp  surrounded  with  piles  of  peat,  each  care- 
fully numbered.  There  is  a  man  with  a  mess  of 
fish  —  the  first  successful  French  angler  I've  ever 
seen.  And  everywhere,  too,  little  villages  —  an 
American  woman  sitting  next  us  wants  to  know 
why  they  are  all  called  "  Buvette  "  !  —  are  scat- 
tered through  the  waving  fields;  the  tiled  roofs 
and  red,  yellow,  and  white  stucco  walls  lending 
additional  color  to  the  charm  of  the  whole. 

There  was  a  whistle,  a  glimpse  of  the  magnifi- 
cent cathedral,  and  the  train  came  to  a  stop  before 
the  very  important-sounding  but  unprepossessing 
"  Hotel  du  Globe  et  d'  Amiens."  I  hurried  out, 
but  The  Most  Charming  Man  in  the  World,  who 
was  in  the  next  carriage,  got  to  the  pushcart  be- 
fore me  and  purchased  the  last  bottle  of  beer. 
He  was  radiant  at  being  released  from  German 
cooking  and  once  more  in  his  beloved  France,  and 
refused  to  speak  a  word  of  English.  As  we 
stepped  into  the  train,  he  drew  me  into  the  vesti- 
bule at  the  end  of  one  of  the  coaches  and,  drop- 
ping his  voice  to  a  delighted  whisper,  "  II  y  a  un 
'  clergyman  '  dans  mon  compartiment,"  he  said  — 
and  offered  me  a  glass  of  beer! 

Paris  consisted,   for  us,   in  driving  from   the 


II  y  a  un  "clergyman" 
dans  mon  comparti- 
ment. 


We  Reach  Rennes  23 

Gare  du  Nord  to  our  accustomed  hotel,  a  welcome 
dinner  and  more  welcome  beds,  and  then  off  next 
morning  for  Rennes.  The  horrors  of  that  jour- 
ney are  indescribable  —  nearly  eight  hours  packed 
in  a  tightly  closed  compartment  with  six  inhabi- 
tants of  the  country.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
journey  came,  like  most  things,  to  an  end,  and  we 
sank  in  exhausted  heaps  in  our  rooms  at  the  Hotel 
Moderne. 


in 

Introducing  Bergere 

TAKEN  all  in  all,  Rennes  was  a  disappoint- 
ment. Enjoyment  of  a  place  is,  of  course, 
largely  a  matter  of  moods,  and  ours,  perhaps,  was 
not  as  cheerful  as  it  should  have  been.  To  be 
sure,  we  felt  we  had  justification.  In  the  first 
place,  Rennes  was  too  large,  and  this  seemed  very 
unreasonable  of  Rennes,  as  we'd  been  looking  for 
something  quite  small  and  rural  and  Breton;  in- 
stead of  which  we  found  quite  naturally  a  town  of 
seventy-five  thousand  inhabitants,  filled  with  cafes, 
cars  and  cabs  and  typically  French.  Second,  peo- 
ple stared  at  us  in  a  most  disconcerting  manner. 
Third,  when  we  called  on  M.  Le  Braz  with  our 
card  of  introduction  and  a  mental  list  of  questions 
relating  to  the  hire  and  keep  of  horses,  the  youth 
who  opened  the  door  replied  in  perfect  English 
to  our  carefully  thought  out  but  stumbling  phrases 
that  he  had  that  day  left  for  his  vacation  of  three 
months.  Or  maybe  it  was  only  three  weeks,  but 
that  being  the  whole  time  allotted  for  our  trip, 
it  mattered  little  if  he  were  staying  three  years. 
Sadly  we  wended  our  way  back  to  the  hotel, — 
which    was    another    grievance,    for    we    hadn't 

24 


Introducing  Bergere  25 

thought  "  Madame  "  was  very  nice  to  us  because, 
contrary  to  what  was  to  be  expected  of  our  nation- 
ality, we  hadn't  wanted  the  most  expensive  rooms 
in  the  house.  We  later  repented  most  heartily 
of  this  particular  prejudice,  for  she  proved  most 
obliging.  Baedeker,  that  trademark  of  travelers, 
branding  them  with  their  crime  on  sight, —  which 
we  soon  left  in  our  disgust  at  his  complete  igno- 
rance of  such  a  spot  as  Hede  with  its  little  Hotel 
de  r  £cu, —  Baedeker  mentioned  hotels,  cafes, 
tramways  —  both  electric  and  steam, —  post  offices 
and  American  consular  agents,  cabs  by  the  hour, 
by  the  course,  even  by  night,  but  not  a  word  as 
to  the  possibility  of  hiring  a  horse  for  several 
weeks  and  the  approximate  cost  thereof  —  infor- 
mation which  surely  any  competent  guide  should 
furnish!  The  American  Consular  Agent!  Why 
not?  The  telephone  elicited  the  answer:  the  gen- 
tleman was  on  his  vacation, —  at  Dinard.  Vaca- 
tions seemed  popular  at  this  season;  we  wondered 
that  the  telephone  was  in  operation.  Madame 
kindly  called  Dinard  for  us,  but  our  friend  had 
taken  a  house  without  a  telephone.  We  could 
have  sat  down  and  howled  dismally.  And  here 
began  our  repentance  concerning  the  hotel. 
Madame  in  five  minutes  called  up  a  riding  school 
for  us,  stated  the  requirements,  received  a  satis- 
factory reply,  made  an  engagement  for  us  to  call, 
even  furnished  us  with  a  little  map  showing  the 


26  Brittany  with  Bergere 

location  of  the  Rue  de  Viarmes  —  and,  meta- 
phorically, we  fell  on  her  neck  and  wept. 

The  £cole  de  Dressage  et  d' Equitation,  Rue  de 
Viarmes,  ii,  we  found  without  difficulty,  and  half 
of  the  firm  of  Thiriot  et  Blanchet  —  which  half 
I  don't  Icnow  —  in  neat  stock  and  other  accouter- 
ments  becoming  a  dealer  in  horse  flesh,  met  us  at 
the  door  and  seemed  to  understand  our  speech  to 
a  certain  extent.  Then  he  led  the  way  to  a  stable 
and  showing  us  a  nice-looking  little  brown  mare, 
wrote  "  250  francs  "  on  a  nearby  blackboard.  I 
raised  my  eyebrows  and  stammered  something 
about  our  having  to  pay  for  her  keep,  whereupon 
he  plunged  into  a  mathematical  dissertation  to 
prove  that  even  so,  it  would  be  far  cheaper  than 
railroad  fares.  Finally  he  volunteered  a  reduc- 
tion of  twenty-five  francs  and  we  left,  agreeing  to 
the  bargain  on  condition  that  the  horse  should  go 
well  on  a  trial  the  next  afternoon.  Thus  did  we 
become  acquainted  with  Bergere.  Privately  she 
was  dubbed  "  Folies  Bergeres,"  though  Decima 
suggested  that  we  were  probably  the  Folies. 

The  Saturday  market  was  just  breaking  up  and 
the  town  seemed  a  little  less  modern  as  we  sat  on 
the  terrasse  of  a  small  cafe  and  watched  the  peas- 
ant women  drive  by  in  their  high  two-wheeled 
carts,  their  heads  covered  with  the  Breton  bonnet, 
which  in  this  particular  vicinity  has  a  pair  of 
strings  —  or,    more    accurately,    side-whiskers  — 


Introducing  Bergere  27 

that  end  in  a  broad  bow  resting  in  front  of  the 
chin.  The  young  girl's  coifs  were  merely  tiny 
pieces  of  lace  the  size  of  a  silver  dollar.  The 
somberness  of  perpetual  black  and  the  everlasting 
umbrella  surprised  us,  but  we  soon  grew  accus- 
tomed to  both  and  understood  their  "  raison 
d'etre," —  especially  the  umbrella  ! 


IV 

The  Open  Road 

MONDAY  arrived,  ushered  in  by  the  dismal 
plashing  of  what  seemed  a  small  but  deter- 
mined cloud-burst.  During  the  trial  trip  of  the 
day  before,  M.  Thiriot  (or  was  it  M.  Blanchet?) 
had  insisted  on  riding  behind  the  little  red-wheeled 
dog-cart,  probably  for  the  express  purpose  of 
awing  Bergere  with  his  too  well  known  voice.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  little  horse  had  shown  so  re- 
markable speed  that  we  had  engaged  her  on  the 
spot  and  she  was  due  to  arrive  at  two-thirty.  But 
our  fresh  linen  had  not  come  and  packing  was  at 
a  standstill.  And  then,  of  course,  in  the  midst 
of  this  predicament,  Decima's  femininity  had  to 
crop  out:  she  must  have  a  new,  appropriate,  and 
becoming  hat  for  the  trip.  It  took  two  hours' 
steady  paddling  around  the  crooked  streets  to  ac- 
complish it,  but  success  rewarded  our  efforts  —  or 
rather  her  efforts  and  my  long-suffering  patience 
—  and,  returning  to  our  hotel  just  in  time  for 
dejeuner,  we  found  that  the  laundry  was  still  in 
abeyance.  Lunch  was  over  and  the  rain  had 
miraculously  stopped,  but  still  no  blanchisseuse. 
One-thirty,  one-forty-five,  two  o'clock  and  she  had 

28 


The  Open  Road  29 

not  appeared.  Finally,  In  response  to  our  third 
frantic  message,  the  linen  arrived  and  was  thrown 
into  the  two  suitcases,  kit-bag,  and  small  satchel 
which,  with  three  kodaks,  comprised  our  equip- 
ment. Then,  having  paid  over  to  M.  Thiriot  two 
hundred  and  twenty-five  francs,  and  having  de- 
posited Decima's  original  hat  with  Madame  for 
safe  keeping  —  Madame  wore  black  so  Decima 
felt  fairly  safe  it  would  not  decorate  her  person 
during  our  absence  —  and  having  tipped  the 
femme  de  chamhre,  the  waiter,  the  head  waiter, 
the  two  hall  porters,  the  driver  of  the  hotel  'bus, 
the  stable  boy  who  was  holding  Bergere's  head, 
and  several  nondescript  individuals  who  stood 
around  expectantly  with  an  air  of  having  accom- 
plished a  great  deal,  we  climbed  in,  saw  the  lug- 
gage roped  on  behind  and  clattered  off  down  the 
street  followed  by  many  "  good-byes  "  and  "  good 
lucks  " —  the  latter  probably  very  skeptical. 

No  sooner  gone  than  we  made  a  number  of  dis- 
coveries, all  of  which  tended  to  raise  in  our  opin- 
ion the  characteristic  acumen,  if  not  honesty,  of 
our  horse  dealer.  The  harness  was  not  the  new 
and  shiny  one  which  we  had  used  on  Sunday,  but 
harness  which  had  seen  evident  hard  service.  The 
iron  footrest  —  against  which  I,  as  driver,  was 
entitled  to  brace  my  feet  to  prevent  slipping  com- 
pletely off  the  sloping  seat,  was  gone  altogether  — 
probably  with  a  view  to  compelling  us  to  buy  a 


30  Brittany  with  Bergere 

new  rest  under  the  terms  of  our  contract,  which 
covered  the  loss  of  everything  from  the  whip  to 
the  entire  outfit  of  horse,  cart,  and  harness.  O 
wily  Thiriot! 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Decima,  "  we'll  write  and  tell 
him  that  we  know  what  he's  done  and  that  we 
think  it  was  horrid,  and  that  will  make  it  all  right." 
Which  of  course  ended  the  matter. 

As  to  Bergere,  we  couldn't  complain:  she  was 
a  darling  and  had  a  fascinating  way  of  wagging 
her  little  stump  of  a  tail  in  harmony  with  her 
pace.  True,  even  in  spite  of  considerable  "  tap- 
ping "  on  occasion,  she  never  attained  the  speed 
which  she  had  developed  so  easily  with  half  the 
firm  of  Thiriot  et  Blanchet  aboard.  Although  I 
am  entirely  ignorant  of  the  wiles  of  their  nefarious 
trade,  I  fear  she  must  have  been  given  some  sort 
of  an  equine  cocktail  before  that  trial  to  make  her 
so  lively.  Still,  from  the  very  first  she  proved  a 
cheerful,  plodding,  uncomplaining  little  mouse, 
and  we  grew  exceedingly  fond  of  her  —  not  that 
she  appreciated  or  reciprocated  our  affection.  I 
call  her  "  mouse  "  advisedly;  she  resembled  one 
much  more  nearly  than  a  horse.  The  term  origi- 
nated with  Decima  —  as,  indeed,  did  all  ideas  on 
the  journey;  I  couldn't  think  of  any  and  Bergere 
wouldn't. 

In  our  disgust  at  the  base  perfidy  of  Thiriot  et 
Blanchet,  we  lost  our  way.     At  the  outset,  Hede 


The  Open  Road  31 

had  been  our  goal  —  with  the  vague  idea,  I  be- 
lieve, that  we  should  thus  eventually  arrive  at 
Saint-Malo.  But  some  miles  from  Rennes,  when 
we  complacently  fancied  ourselves  half  way  to 
Hede,  we  discovered  that  we  were  not  on  the 
route  nationale  leading  to  that  place,  but  were  on 
quite  a  different  road  going  in  quite  a  different 
direction  to  quite  a  different  town  —  Montauban. 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  I  asked  with  masculine 
interrogation. 

"Do,  Peter?"  echoed  Decima  with  feminine 
inconsequence,  "  why  do  anything?  What  differ- 
ence does  it  make  where  we  spend  the  night  any- 
how? Let's  try  this  little  road  here,"  pointing  to 
our  automobile  map  and  striking  what  afterward 
proved  to  be  the  right  one.  So  off  we  turned  to 
the  right  by  a  little  lane  that  puttered  aimlessly 
along,  just  as  do  the  delightful  little  French  rivers, 
now  shut  in  by  rows  of  close  growing  trees,  now 
wandering  between  golden  fields,  crimson  studded 
with  poppies.  The  peace  and  quiet  of  it  all  stole 
into  jaded  American  souls  like  magic.  All  cares 
and  troubles  seemed  to  slide  from  our  shoulders 
as  in  reality  the  waterproof  covering  we  had 
bought  in  the  morning  nearly  slipped  from  the 
backs  of  the  luggage.  And  then  the  spell  was 
broken.  Rounding  a  corner  we  found  ourselves 
on  the  Saint-Malo  road,  headed  for  Hede,  a  steam 
tram  shrieking  and  growling  in  the  distance.      It 


32  Brittany  with  Bergere 

did  not  bother  us  to  any  great  degree  —  indeed 
this  was  the  only  time  that  we  actually  saw  one 
of  the  little  trains.  But  the  sense  of  civilization 
from  the  crossing  of  our  path  by  car  tracks  was 
an  irritant  from  which  we  never  could  quite 
escape:  the  thing  —  or  its  counterpart  —  was 
ubiquitous  and  kept  turning  up  unexpectedly  in  a 
disconcerting  manner. 

A  few  kilometers  beyond  Montgermont  we  felt 
obliged  to  stop  and  photograph  with  two  separate 
kodaks  a  delightful  old  gate  which  opened  direct 
from  the  highway  into  a  chicken  covered  barn- 
yard. The  beaming  owner  declared  that  it  was 
from  three  to  four  hundred  years  old  —  which  I 
can  well  believe  —  that  "  but  yes,  many  Anglais 
had  photographed  it,  that  there  had  even  been 
made  post-cards  of  it,  and  wouldn't  we  please  give 
him  one  of  ours?"  We  promised, —  promises 
are  easily  made, —  but  completely  forgot  to  ask 
the  gentleman's  name;  all  we  knew  was  that  his 
house  was  labeled  "  Registre  Bureau  "  and  that 
the  tramway  station  —  that  infernal  tramway 
again !  —  across  the  road  was  labeled  La  Brossc- 
La  Chapelle.  Fortunately  our  honor  was  saved 
by  neither  of  the  pictures  coming  out. 

To  this  inhabitant  of  the  country  we  were 
Anglais,  and  so  we  remained  throughout  the  next 
three  weeks, —  usually,  I  fear,  with  the  mental 
prefix  "  mad."     We  didn't  bother  to  correct  the 


The  Open  Road  3J 

general  misapprehension,  for  we  felt  that  we 
might  as  well  spare  our  fellow-countrymen  the 
reputation  for  insanity.  The  one  time  we  did  at- 
tempt to  explain  that  we  were  not  British,  our  com- 
panion had  never  heard  of  America,  so  we  grace- 
fully accepted  our  foster-nationality. 

On,  on  past  laughing  fields  and  rich,  green  trees, 
past  workmen  asleep  by  the  roadside,  past  staring 
children  that  smiled  and  said  "  bonjotir  "  and  star- 
ing grown-ups  that  didn't  smile  and  didn't  say 
"  bonjour,"  past  a  loathsome  beggar  who  tried  to 
talk  to  us  toothlessly  and  rained  down  thanks  and 
blessings  on  us  for  our  two  sous,  on,  on  past  the 
little  lanes  that  wound  off  so  temptingly  in  every 
direction,  past  the  gleaming  black-and-white  pies, 
the  poppies,  the  countless  roadside  flowers  of  every 
description,  and  then  a  spire  in  the  distance  an- 
nounced Hede. 


Hede 

OUR  preconceived  notions,  based  on  memo- 
ries of  Rennes,  were  of  an  up-to-date,  com- 
mercial and  quite  uninteresting  town,  with  street 
cars  and  people  that  turned  and  stared.  And 
when,  on  asking  an  old  gentleman  if  there  were  an 
inn  there,  he  informed  us  with  a  polite  but  sur- 
prised raising  of  the  eyebrows  that  there  were 
three  hotels,  our  fears  were  redoubled.  Our  de- 
light therefore  was  extreme  when,  trotting  over 
the  cobblestones  of  a  narrow  lane,  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  peaceful,  deserted  square,  at  the  door 
of  a  tiny  old  house  designated  by  a  tin  sign  as  the 
Hotel  de  I'ficu.  I  dislike  making  inquiries  in 
French,  so  I  remain  in  my  seat,  ostensibly  to  hold 
our  prancing  steed  in  check  while  Decima  de- 
scends in  search  of  someone.  The  first  door  led 
into  a  tobacco  shop  and  comptoir,  containing  a 
number  of  men  busily  drinking,  but  with  no  one 
in  charge;  the  second  opened  into  a  queer  little 
dining-room, —  and  Decima  beat  a  hurried  re- 
treat. While  she  stood  in  the  road,  nonplused, 
and  looked  up  at  me,  equally  at  a  loss,  a  rosy- 
cheeked  girl  ran  out.     Smilingly  she  assured  us 

34 


Mam'selle  at  Hede. 


Hede  37 

that  we  could  have  dinner  and  rooms  for  the  night, 
though  the  house  scarcely  looked  large  enough  to 
possess  two  chamhres.  Then  a  man  emerged  and 
led  Bergere  away. 

The  quaintness,  the  simplicity  of  those  rooms! 
—  mine  especially,  tucked  under  the  eaves  and 
reached  by  two  flights  of  winding,  worn  stairs. 
A  high  bed  —  immaculately  clean  and  covered 
with  an  enormous,  enveloping  canopy  —  a  rough 
washstand,  a  table  and  one  chair  were  all  the 
furniture  which  each  could  boast  —  or  hold,  for 
that  matter.  And  the  nondescript  but  delightful 
room  which  acted  as  "  lobby,"  tobacco-shop  and 
comptoir  vfith.  its  low,  heavily  raftered  ceiling,  and 
the  little  stools  around  the  sticky  tables!  In  the 
days  of  the  Duchesse  Anne,  whose  house  it  was, 
the  whole  lower  floor  had  been  one  great  hall;  but 
modern  partitions  made  a  small  dining-room  and 
kitchen  besides  the  comptoir.  Later,  on  the  way 
out  to  the  stable,  we  saw  the  huge  fire-place,  now 
deserted  for  a  more  convenient  stove. 

Then,  as  the  sun  dropped  slowly  to  the  west 
and  the  silent  shadows  began  to  steal  from  their 
cool  hiding  places,  we  crossed  the  little  square 
and  in  three  minutes  found  ourselves  on  the  crest 
of  a  grassy  hill,  surrounded  with  the  ruined  walls 
of  a  medieval  castle.  Sheep  browsed  in  a  busi- 
ness-like manner  here  and  there,  but  all  the  rest  of 
the  everyday,  matter-of-fact,  eating-and-drinking 


38  Brittany  with  Bergere 

world  seemed  to  have  slipped  mysteriously  away, 
leaving  us  alone  with  the  Spirit  of  the  Past  to  con- 
jure up  pictures  of  Henry  II  and  his  sturdy  Eng- 
lishmen storming  this  Breton  stronghold.  Out 
through  one  of  the  gaps  in  the  crumbling  walls  — 
possibly  made  in  that  very  year  1168  —  far  at 
our  feet  spread  a  wonderful  valley  interlaced  with 
the  slender,  silver  ribbons  of  a  dozen  different 
roads.  And  to  think  it  made  no  difference  which 
we  should  take  on  the  morrow!  Surely  there  is 
a  bit  of  the  nomad  in  most  of  us.  For  which  let 
us  be  thankful. 

A  distant  bell  chimed  seven  and  we  turned  re- 
gretfully and  wound  our  way  through  walled  lanes 
to  the  inn  —  and  dinner.  And  what  a  dinner  1 
Truly  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  welcome  re- 
pasts I  have  ever  eaten.  Epicures  may  say  that 
Brittany  is  not  noted  for  its  cooking;  doubtless 
they  know.  All  /  know  is  that  alone  and  at  peace 
in  the  little  dining-room,  with  the  smiling,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl  to  wait  on  us,  and  a  simple  but  de- 
licious dinner,  our  souls  —  and  our  appetites  — 
were  content.  Soup  — "  la  bonne  soupe  an 
chou  " —  omelet,  lamb  and  potatoes,  and  fruit, 
with  unlimited  inn  ordinaire,  and  excellent  cider 
to  boot  —  what  more  could  two  hungry,  healthy 
trekkers  want?  And  to  think  that  Baedeker 
doesn't  even  mention  Hede  in  the  index! 

Dinner  over,  we  went  into  the  comptoir,  and  I 


Hide  39 

smoked  while  Decima  wrote  and  probably  half  the 
male  inhabitants  of  the  village  came  in  for  coffee 
or  wine  or  to  play  cards  by  the  light  of  one  smoky 
swinging  lamp.  One  of  the  said  inhabitants  tried 
to  kiss  the  pretty  little  red-cheeked  girl  and  got 
his  ears  boxed  for  his  pains.  Then  we  went  out 
to  say  good-night  to  Bergere,  passing  through  the 
court  with  its  tower  which  we  climbed  the  next 
morning.  She  seemed  quite  content  —  not  that 
we  would  have  known  had  she  been  starving  —  so 
we  picked  our  way  back  over  the  rough  stone  flag- 
ging to  the  house  and  mounted,  each  with  a  candle, 
to  our  nooks  under  the  eaves. 

Awakened  by  the  vociferous  creaking  of  the 
village  pump,  I  dismounted  from  my  dangerously 
high  bed  to  find  the  sky  a  leaden  gray,  veiled  by  the 
stream  of  rain  that  rolled  down  from  the  steep 
roof.  The  busy  little  town  seemed  unmindful  of 
the  weather.  In  the  middle  of  the  square  was  the 
rosy-cheeked  girl  pumping  the  day's  water  supply 
for  the  house  —  though  it  seemed  an  unnecessary 
labor,  considering  the  bucketfuls  which  the  heav- 
ens so  gratuitously  sent.  Silent  men,  their  black 
blouses  drenched  with  rain,  drove  by  in  cumber- 
some high-wheeled  carts;  women  bearing  cotton 
umbrellas  clattered  their  sabots  over  the  cobbled 
streets.  Breakfast  finished,  the  rain  had  ceased 
and  we  sallied  forth  through  the  comptoir,  packed 
with  farmers  drinking  hard  cider  out  of  teacups, 


40  Brittany  with  Bergere 

to  find  the  cause  of  so  much  activity.  We  found 
it:  in  what  was  once  the  forecourt  of  the  castle 
a  pig  market  was  already  in  process  of  disband- 
ment.  Instead  of  sheltering  the  dark  deeds  of 
proud  lords  and  mighty  men-at-arms,  the  chateau 
must  need  content  itself  with  frowning  on  so  pro- 
saic an  event  as  the  sale  of  a  few  swine!  Such 
is  the  mutability  of  human  affairs. 

But  its  plebeian  surroundings  could  not  change 
the  wealth  of  romance  in  the  calm  ruins.  Further 
exploration  discovered  for  us  a  most  charming 
view  back  toward  the  town  which  revealed  a  fact 
we  had  not  noticed  on  the  preceding  day  — 
namely,  that  a  great  part  of  the  village  was  sus- 
pended on  the  crest  of  a  hill  down  whose  sides 
sprawled  many  quaint  gardens,  resembling  a  di- 
minutive Babylon.  Skirting  the  fringe  of  walls, 
we  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  square  and  to 
the  church,  twelfth  century  Romanesque  with  a 
twentieth  century  spire,  two  months  old.  The  in- 
terior was  a  shock  to  one's  sense  of  structural 
stability:  a  Gothic  roof,  new,  shiny,  scrupulously 
white,  with  all  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of 
diagonal,  transverse  and  longitudinal  ribs,  hung 
above  our  heads  without  apparent  support.  The 
town  pride  which  preferred  this  painful  spruceness 
was  pardonable;  the  grotesque  incongruity  of  in- 
terior and  exterior,  though  financially  surprising, 
was  conceivable.     But  how  in  the  name  of  gods 


A  peculiarly  unbeautiful 
infant. 


Hide  43 

and  architects  was  the  feat  physically  possible? 
Long  we  puzzled  over  the  enigma  without  finding 
a  solution.  Then  suddenly  I  had  an  inspiration. 
Looking  furtively  about,  I  retired  to  one  end  of 
the  empty  church  and  stood  on  a  pew.  Poking 
the  low  vaulted  roof  with  my  cane,  there  was  an 
ominous  crunching  sound,  and  a  shower  of  plaster 
descended.  We  escaped,  guilty  but  triumphant; 
the  riddle,  both  financial  and  architectural,  had 
been  solved !  However,  we  did  not  deem  it  wise 
to  linger  in  order  to  confess  our  discovery  to  the 
priest,  but  walked  briskly  back  to  the  inn  and  com- 
manded the  horse.  While  Bergere  was  being  har- 
nessed, the  baby  of  the  household  was  waked  to 
have  its  photograph  taken.  The  fond  mother  of 
course  insisted  on  changing  grimy  but  character- 
istic garb  for  festal  attire,  which  spoiled  the  value 
of  the  photograph  except  as  a  record  of  a  pecu- 
liarly unbeautiful  infant.  Then  with  real  regret  at 
parting,  and  what  this  time  seemed  really  sincere 
good  wishes,  we  turned  the  little  horse  and  clat- 
tered off  on  the  road  to  Combourg.  Why  Com- 
bourg,  we  didn't  exactly  know;  except  that  we  had 
to  go  somewhere,  and  the  rosy-cheeked  girl  had 
said  there  was  an  interesting  chateau  there. 
Traveling  "  from  hand  to  mouth,"  so  to  speak, 
added  a  gypsy  flavor  to  our  journey  which  made 
for  far  greater  charm  than  a  carefully  followed 
itinerary. 


VI 

The  First  Menhir 

COMBOURG, —  how  picturesque  the  great 
towers  of  the  Chateau  Chateaubriand  domi- 
nating the  surrounding  country !  We  saw  it  first 
in  the  distance  from  the  top  of  a  long  hill,  framed 
between  rows  of  receding  trees,  impressive  in  its 
silent  dignity,  haughty  in  its  feudalism.  Then, 
as  we  descended  the  hill  and  could  distinguish  the 
village  nestling  secure  and  confiding  at  its  feet,  it 
seemed  to  lose  its  asperity  and  take  on  a  paternal 
quality  mingled  with  the  gentleness  of  age,  like 
some  grand  old  man  grown  tender  through  the 
experience  of  a  long  life  of  struggle.  Clinging  to 
its  base  was  the  "  Hotel  du  Chateau  et  des 
Voyageurs,  Aristide  Allix,  Proprietaire."  The 
name  seemed  applicable,  the  owner  sounded  con- 
scientious, the  hour  of  noon  was  appropriate. 
We  stopped  for  lunch.  If  the  great  Aristides 
himself  had  been  an  inn-keeper,  his  sense  of  jus- 
tice could  not  have  furnished  a  more  delicious  re- 
past. It  was  four  years  since  I  had  tasted  the 
rillettes  for  which  Touraine  should  be  justly  im- 
mortal if  for  nothing  else,  and  here  was  the  coun- 
terpart of  that  delightful  potted  meat.     The  years 

44 


The  First  Menhir  45 

of  memory  were  not  in  vain;  they  had  taught  me 
wisdom  and  the  sad  fact  that  dishes  are  not  always 
passed  a  second  time.  So  my  first  portion  was,  I 
fear,  unspeakably  large.  My  hopes  were  amply 
justified.  What  seemed  an  enormity  of  appetite 
to  Decima  was,  fortunately,  not  regarded  as  a 
breach  of  etiquette  by  the  demoiselle  who  served 
us,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  astounding  table 
manners  of  the  French  commis  voyageur.  So 
when  occasion  offered,  I  brazenly  ventured  to  take 
a  second  helping  and  asked  if  these  were  not  the 
famous  rillettes  de  Tours.  She  stared  in  surprise 
and  shrugged  her  Gallic  shoulders.  "  But  no, 
M'sieu,"  she  said  in  an  injured  tone,  "  they  are 
the  rillettes  de  Combourg!  " 

Luncheon  achieved,  we  sat  down  at  one  of  the 
two  little  iron  tables  which,  with  a  faded  awning, 
adorned  the  terrasse  of  the  establishment.  While 
Decima  wrote  the  inevitable  postcard  I  smoked 
and  asked  questions.  The  chateau  was  "  very  an- 
cient and  '  treSy  tres  interessant '  and,  name  of  a 
name,  it  is  necessary  absolutely  that  Monsieur 
and  Madame  see  the  skeleton  of  the  cat  which  was 
really  a  count  of  Combourg  who  haunted  the 
castle."  But  when  we  came  down  to  actual  facts, 
it  seemed  that  the  chateau  was  open  only  on 
Wednesdays,  and  this  was  not  a  Wednesday. 
The  cook,  however,  who  overheard  the  conversa- 
tion, emerged  from  her  sacred  precinct  to  say  that 


46  Brittany  with  Bergere 

the  concierge  had  married  the  uncle  of  her  hus- 
band and  that  we  should  have  no  trouble  if  we  es- 
sayed the  matter  properly.  A  word  to  the  wise 
for  once  sufficed.  So  we  shouldered  our  kodaks 
and  followed  the  winding  street  up  to  the  gate- 
keeper's lodge. 

The  concierge  may  have  been  the  aunt  by  mar- 
riage of  a  very  capable  and  pleasant  mistress  of 
the  culinary  art,  but  she  scarcely  seemed  to  live  up 
to  her  relationship-in-law;  in  fact  she  was  quite 
unwilling  to  oblige.  However,  we  attempted  the 
implied  remedy  —  with  success;  she  being  no  less 
hardened  than  the  average  member  of  her  calling 
to  the  monstrous  sin  of  bribery.  The  iron  gates 
swung  open  and  we  entered  the  chateau  grounds. 

Full  of  charm  was  this  park,  with  its  paths  cut 
through  cool  sward  bordered  by  rustling  boskets 
of  mighty  trees.  In  its  midst  rose  the  gray  walls 
of  the  castle,  silent,  imposing,  eloquent  of  another 
age.  Our  guide  said  little  until  we  had  entered 
the  ground  floor  of  the  building,  with  its  freshened 
appearance  bespeaking  modern  occupancy.  Then 
she  burst  into  a  perfect  torrent  of  incomprehensi- 
ble, toothless  patois.  It  was  the  monologue  de- 
livered on  such  occasions,  as  familiar  to  the  good 
soul  as  a  priest's  Aves,  but  to  the  uninitiated, 
utterly  unintelligible  and  ludicrously  funny  in  the 
sing-song  delivery.  The  old  lady  seemed  very  ill 
at  ease,  and  whisked  us  from  one  room  to  another 


The  First  Menhir  47 

until  we  had  scarcely  a  breath  left  in  our  bodies, 
from  the  sheer  exhaustion  of  climbing  winding 
stone  stairs  and  scurrying  along  the  deserted  corri- 
dors. Still  we  saw  it  all,  this  early  home  of  Cha- 
teaubriand, dating  in  its  oldest  part  from  the 
twelfth  century,  where  he  spent  the  long,  silent 
evenings  he  has  so  vividly  described.  Just  as  we 
reached  the  door,  an  ill  favored  youth  came  hastily 
up  and  whispered  a  message  to  the  old  dame. 
Whereupon  a  look  of  terror  overspread  her 
wrinkled  face  and  she  scuttled  off  without  even 
pausing  for  a  pour-boire,  delivering  a  mumbled 
order  over  her  shoulder  to  the  aforesaid  youth. 
That  worthy  told  us  to  follow  him  and  led  the 
way  rapidly  through  the  front  door  towards  a 
different  gate  from  that  of  our  entry,  bidding  us 
keep  under  cover  of  a  gentle  slope.  Already  the 
old  woman  was  hurrying  as  fast  as  her  feet  could 
take  her  towards  the  main  entrance.  In  answer  to 
repeated  questions,  the  youth  grudgingly  informed 
us  that  M.  le  Comte  had  returned  unexpectedly 
from  Paris  and  was  already  at  the  gate  and  that 
if  he  had  found  us  in  the  grounds  he  would  have 
been  highly  angry.  "  So  you  had  better  dispatch 
yourselves,"  he  added  sourly  in  the  idiom,  as  he 
banged  the  gate  behind  us.  We  returned  to  the 
hostelry  of  M.  Allix,  avoided  the  polite  cook  and 
started  off  for  nowhere  in  particular. 

Bergere  was  unhappy;  her  apology  for  a  tail 


48  Brittany  with  Bergere 

did  not  wag  with  its  accustomed  jauntiness.  I  am 
not  naturally  of  a  cruel  nature,  still  I  would  have 
tried  the  rod.  But  the  gentle  taps  which  were  all 
that  Decima  would  allow  would  have  roused  scorn 
in  a  wayward  kitten.  So  I  was  obliged  to  decide 
something  was  wrong  with  the  adjustment  of  the 
charrette.  We  came  to  a  halt,  and  while  Decima 
fed  the  absurd  scrap  of  a  horse  with  grass  and 
soothed  her  with  baby-talk,  I  toiled  in  the  blazing 
sun  to  shift  the  seat  and  lighten  the  weight  on 
Bergere's  back.  Still  no  visible  change  in  the 
pony's  mien;  she  crawled  along  as  if  we  had  been 
maltreating  her  for  weeks. 

"  Perhaps  we've  got  it  too  far  back  and  it's 
interfering  with  her  digestive  apparatus,"  sug- 
gested Decima. 

Another  shift:  no  result. 

*'  Well,"  said  Decima  in  an  authoritative  tone, 
"  we'll  simply  have  to  stop  at  the  next  town  and 
let  the  horse  go  to  bed." 

I  dutifully  looked  up  the  next  town  on  the  map. 

'*  It's  called  Bazouges-la-Perouse,"  I  said;  "  we 
really  can't  spend  the  night  in  a  place  called 
Bazouges." 

My  objection  was  overruled,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  I  stopped  in  the  one  narrow  street  of  Ba- 
zouges-la-Perouse and  asked  this  time  for  *'  the 
hotel."  "  Here  it  is,"  answered  an  exceptionally 
unkempt  man.     "  I  am  the  proprietaire;  what  will 


The  First  Menhir  49 

Monsieur  and  Madame  have?  " 

Looking  up  we  discovered  a  very  unattractive 
inn;  could  we  have  two  rooms  for  the  night? 
The  hotelier  answered  in  great  surprise  that  he 
had  one  room  and  in  yet  greater  astonishment  at 
such  a  question  that  there  was  only  one  bed  in  it. 
So  I  thanked  him  and  drove  off,  leaving  him  gap- 
ing after  us  and  explaining  the  "  mad  English  " 
to  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 

Antrain,  which  Decima  insisted  must  be  a  mis- 
nomer for  ''  en  voiture,"  was  but  nine  kilometers 
further  on,  but  Bergere  was  too  depressed  to  make 
rapid  progress.  A  short  distance  out  of  Bazouges 
we  saw  our  first  menhir, —  one  of  those  giant 
monolithic  monuments  of  uncertain  origin  which 
are  so  striking  a  feature  of  parts  of  Brittany.  It 
would  seem  that  these  monuments  were  first  raised 
by  the  prehistoric  peoples  preceding  the  Celts;  but 
many  date  from  Gallic,  even  Roman  times.  This 
was  in  no  way  an  unusual  specimen,  standing 
merely  some  ten  feet  high  by  the  roadside, —  it 
would  probably  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  the 
road  had  originally  gone  out  of  its  way  to  pass 
the  megalith  —  but  to  our  unaccustomed  eyes,  it 
was  a  treasure,  a  discovery  of  the  most  amazing 
importance.  The  relentless  grip  of  the  church 
had  puts  its  mark  even  on  so  pagan  an  idol; 
perched  on  the  top  was  a  small  stone  cross;  prob- 
ably the  work  of  an  early  saint,  intended  to  banish 


50  Brittany  with  Bergere 

the  evil  influence  of  the  accursed  stone,  or,  what 
is  even  more  likely,  to  adapt  the  relic  to  his  own 
peculiar  form  of  worship.  Yet  one  might  well  be- 
lieve in  either  saints  or  devils,  to  see  a  great  rock 
casually  planted  in  this  manner  where  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  stone  the  size  of  one's  head.  Six 
little  boys  returning  from  school  with  six  little 
umbrellas  under  their  arms  seemed  suddenly 
stricken  dumb  when  asked  how  it  happened  to  be 
there.  A  seventh,  when  taunted  with  the  old 
chestnut  that  the  cat  had  stolen  his  tongue,  plucked 
up  courage  sufficient  to  tell  us  that  his  name  was 
Joseph  Leroux  and  that  he  was  aged  six  years  and 
three  months;  but  as  to  the  menhir,  he  seemed  in 
amazing  ignorance,  which  only  tended  to  increase 
our  self-complacency  at  the  discovery  we  had 
made. 

Whether  or  not  Bergere  has  archaeological 
tastes,  I  am  unable  to  say;  maybe  she  was  merely 
superstitious,  knew  of  the  approaching  menhir  and 
was  relieved  to  have  done  with  it.  In  any  event 
she  was  greatly  cheered  when  she  left  it  outlined 
against  the  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun,  and  trotted 
quite  happily  on.  And  how  glad  we  were  that 
lack  of  hotel  accommodation  had  dissuaded  us 
from  Bazouges,  as  we  rumbled  over  the  cobbled, 
winding  streets  of  Antrain  —  another  town 
omitted  by  Baedeker!  How  quaint  the  old 
houses,  how  different  the  frank  curiosity  of  these 


Joseph  Leroux. 


The  First  Menhir  53 

simple  villagers  from  the  boorish  staring  we  re- 
ceived at  Rennes!  And  the  Grand'  Maison 
Boscher,  though  not  so  ancient  as  the  little  inn  at 
Hede,  was  even  more  charming  than  the  Hotel 
de  r£cu  —  built  round  a  stone  court,  its  walls 
covered  with  climbing  roses. 

A  sympathetic  stableman  listened  to  my  stam- 
mered recital  of  Bergere's  woes  with  the  courtesy 
and  apparent  comprehension  which  only  the 
French  can  show  a  harassed  foreigner.  He 
seemed  to  take  a  real  interest  in  the  little  horse  — 
as,  indeed,  did  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact 
—  and  finally  announced  he  would  give  her  a  bath 
with  savon  noir.  As  this  was  said  with  an  air 
which  implied  that  of  course  I  knew  black  soap 
was  the  very  finest  treatment  which  could  be  ap- 
plied for  just  this  particular  ailment,  I  nodded 
wisely,  murmured  "  hien,"  and  settled  myself  to 
watch  the  proceedings  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
Grand'  Maison.  Having  seen  her  carefully 
rubbed  and  put  to  bed,  we  strolled  over  to  the 
old  church.  It  was  too  dim  to  see  much  more 
than  that  the  interior  had  been  quite  inartistlcally 
remodeled.  So  we  wandered  back  by  the  ivy- 
grown  prison,  long  since  disused,  and  played 
*'  Canfield  "  after  dinner  by  the  light  of  a  solitary 
lamp  until  the  outrageously  late  hour  of  nine- 
thirty  and  then  —  retired. 


VII 

Le  Mont  Saint-Michel 

THE  busy  country  day  was  already  well  ad- 
vanced when  I  woke  from  the  dreamless 
sleep  to  which  the  Breton  air  and  a  clear  conscience 
are  so  conducive.  For  a  moment  I  lay  still,  lulled 
by  the  fragrance  of  roses  framing  the  window. 
Then,  suddenly  conscious  of  many  things  yet  to 
be  seen  in  this  delightful  Brittany,  I  tumbled  to 
my  feet  and  beat  frantically  on  the  wall  until  a 
sleepy  voice  assured  me  that  Decima  shared  my 
sentiments.  Details  we  discussed  at  our  "  little 
breakfast  "  of  bread  hacked  from  an  enormous, 
pachydermatous  loaf,  with  glistening  butter, 
washed  down  by  a  bowl  of  coffee.  The  Wander- 
lust was  on  us;  we  had  seen  all  of  importance  in 
Antrain :  we  must  press  on  to  new  discoveries  even 
more  important  than  the  menhir  of  yesterday. 
Where  we  should  go  mattered  little,  but  Pontor- 
son  seemed  the  natural  place,  being  on  the  direct 
route  to  that  most  historic  site  in  all  Bretagne  — 
Le  Mont  Saint-Michel. 

Decisions  are  easily  made  when  one  has  only 
to  consult  the  wishes  of  a  sister  and  a  small  French 
horse.    Yet  this  one  had  like  to  bring  us  into  a  deal 

54 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  55 

of  trouble.  As  we  entered  the  town  some  two 
hours  later,  the  inevitable  pig-market  was  in  ses- 
sion, and  the  streets  were  thronged  with  pig-laden 
and  pig-driving  peasants.  The  scene  was  full  of 
fascination  and,  as  Bergere  was  crawling  at  the 
snail's  pace  she  loved  so  well,  we  paid  little  heed 
to  the  course,  trusting  her  to  look  out  for  herself. 
To  the  mere  man  who  attempts  to  calculate  what 
the  feminine  mind  will  or  will  not  do  is  sure  con- 
fusion. We  were  engrossed  in  listening  to  the 
heart-rending  squeals  which  emerged  from  a  po- 
tato-sack on  the  back  of  a  purchaser,  when  an 
absent-minded  paysanne,  with  stooping  shoulders 
and  silvered  hair  beneath  the  neat  cap,  walked  di- 
rectly in  front  of  Bergere.  A  masculine  horse 
would  have  stopped,  or  at  least  swerved  to  let  the 
lady  pass.  Not  so  Bergere.  We  were  startled 
by  a  slight  jolt  as  her  soft  nose  came  suddenly  in 
contact  with  the  old  woman's  ear.  A  thrill  of 
horror  passed  through  me.  Had  she  chosen,  it 
might  have  been  a  "  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  "  for 
the  mad  English  who  drove  so  abominably.  But 
here  again  my  analysis  of  the  feminine  mind  was 
wrong;  she  merely  clapped  her  hand  to  her  head 
and  scurried  off,  murmuring  "  Mon  Di'u,  mon 
Di'u !  "  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  us. 

The  Hotel  de  I'Ouest  seemed  far  too  civilized 
with  its  electric  light,  but  we  later  found  a  candle 
more  satisfactory  for  reading.     Our  companions 


56  Brittany  with  Bergere 

at  luncheon  were,  however,  too  barbaric  for 
words;  never  have  I  listened  to  sounds  so  stertor- 
ous during  the  consumption  of  food  by  man  or 
beast, —  an  East  Side  tough  would  have  been  a 
Chesterfield  by  comparison.  Yet  these  same 
drummers,  if  asked  a  question,  would  have  an- 
swered with  formal  politeness  of  which  most 
Americans  would  have  been  incapable.  Manners 
are  a  matter  of  geography,  I  suppose,  as  much  as 
language  and  the  wearing  of  beards. 

Mont  Saint-Michel,  we  were  told,  was  no  place 
to  take  a  horse.  Luncheon  over,  we  boarded  the 
steam  tram,  leaving  Bergere  to  her  fragrant  hay. 
The  diminutive  train  rattled  off  through  the  coun- 
try, suddenly  grown  flat,  and  soon  the  smell  of 
the  sea  filled  the  air.  A  bend  in  the  tracks  and 
there  loomed  in  the  distance  the  rock,  fortress- 
girt,  and  crowned  with  the  thirteenth  century 
abbey,  topped  by  the  dwindling  church  spire  — 
a  giant  menhir  reared  above  the  monotonous 
Greve.  Then  we  slid  onto  the  dike  which  joins 
the  mainland  to  the  town,  perched  as  Le  Mont  is 
half  a  mile  out  on  the  sands.  A  few  minutes  later, 
the  train  disgorged  us  —  almost  the  only  foreign- 
ers —  at  the  base  of  the  cragged  promontory.  A 
great  avalanche  of  guides,  commissionaires,  and 
hotel  agents  descended  upon  us.  Once,  however, 
we  had  fought  and  glared  our  way  through  their 
ranks  to  the  main  gate  of  the  fortifications,  the 


A  pig  in  a  poke. 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  59 

host  seemed  to  respect  our  temerity  and  we  were, 
comparatively  speaking,  unmolested.  Doubtless 
this  turbulent  and  not  over-clean  crowd  earn  a  re- 
spectable living  from  the  unwary,  but  why  they  are 
permitted  to  afflict  the  intelligent  and  unobtrusive 
traveler  and  to  desecrate  the  charm  of  so  historic 
a  spot,  passes  the  bounds  of  my  comprehension. 
However,  I  am  not  the  French  Government. 

Charming  Mont  Saint-Michel  assuredly  is. 
Far  abler  writers  have  told  of  it;  and  its  appear- 
ance and  history  need  here  no  word.  To  attempt 
a  description  of  its  charm,  its  uniqueness,  its  mag- 
nificent setting,  would  be  futile;  to  me  they  are 
indescribable.  Our  formal  tour  through  the 
monastery  with  half  a  hundred  French  sight-seers 
was  spoiled  by  a  dozen  brats  who  seemed  to  think 
that  we  were  the  sights  they  had  come  to  see. 
They  blocked  our  way  and,  with  uncouth  staring, 
got  under  our  very  feet.  Hints  that  their  atten- 
tions were  unpleasant  had  no  more  effect  than  the 
roars  of  a  caged  lion.  But  having  accomplished 
our  duty  and  soothed  our  consciences  as  tourists 
with  the  thought  that  we  had  seen  all  that  should 
be  seen,  we  sneaked  off  really  to  enjoy  Mont 
Saint-Michel.  An  hour  or  more  we  wandered 
over  the  fortifications,  looking  now  at  the  busy, 
crooked,  almost  perpendicular  streets  of  the  little 
town  within,  now  over  the  wet  gray  sables  to  the 
gray  water  without  —  for  the  tide  recedes  some 


6o  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

seven  miles  from  this  Bay  of  Saint-Michel.  We 
stopped  for  rest  and  refreshment  at  one  of  the 
many  cafes,  the  terrasses  of  which  line  the  walls 
with  yellow  iron  tables  and  chairs.  For  sight- 
seeing is  fatiguing  and  to  prolong  it  uncomfortably 
is  to  spoil  the  entire  day  with  weariness.  Decima 
chose  tea  which,  being  intended  for  foreigners, 
was  execrable;  my  hock  was  more  successful. 
Mere  Poulard's  "  famous  omelets  "  we  suspected 
were  now  in  the  hands  of  a  corporation  and  to  be 
avoided.  Then  as  the  sun  swung  lower  and  the 
chill  of  evening  began  to  drift  in  from  the  sea,  we 
wound  our  way  down  hill  and  over  sticky  sands  to 
the  train.     And  thence  back  to  Pontorson. 

That  evening  there  was  music  by  a  handful  of 
buglers  attached  to  a  division  of  soldiers  in  tem- 
porary garrison  in  the  town.  As  music  it  struck 
me  as  rather  limited  but  it  gave  enormous  pleasure 
to  the  inhabitants.  Beginning  at  one  end  of  the 
main  street,  the  band  would  march  to  the  other, 
playing  vociferously  a  monotonous  fanfare,  while 
the  entire  population  followed  at  its  heels  to  ap- 
plaud at  the  finish.  A  rest  followed,  the  mu- 
sicians all  lighting  cigarettes  and  conversing  indo- 
lently with  the  bystanders.  Then  followed  a 
second  tune,  as  monotonous  as  the  first,  with  puffs 
of  smoke  between  blows  on  the  bugles.  Again 
the  whole  procession  would  retire  to  the  other  end 
of  the  street  and  the  performance  would  be  re- 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  6i 

peated,  using  the  same  two  tunes.  The  stableman 
said  something  about  a  march  to  Hede,  but  after 
following  the  crowd  over  the  same  route  five  times, 
we  gave  up  all  hope  and  went  to  bed. 

The  church  we  visited  in  the  morning  while 
Bergere  was  being  clad  for  the  day's  march.  The 
exterior  was  Romanesque,  simple  but  quaint,  with 
stumpy  bell-turrets  flanking  the  fagade.  The  tym- 
panum of  the  south  portal  was  rudely  carved  with 
grotesque  figures,  too  worn  to  be  recognizable, 
but  resembling  a  bird  and  a  man.  The  interior 
itself  was  uninterestingly  modernized.  But  under 
a  window  on  the  north  side  of  the  church  was  a 
bas-relief  of  the  Ascension,  apparently  taken  from 
the  north  tympanum,  where  was  only  a  plain  slab 
of  stone;  and  to  one  side  of  the  altar  was  a  stone 
reredos.  The  figures  were  so  mutilated  —  all 
had  been  beheaded  —  that  we  could  recognize 
only  two  scenes  of  the  twenty  plaques,  the  central 
"  Crucifixion  "  and  the  "  Last  Supper."  So  poor 
was  the  preservation  that  any  attempt  to  date  the 
work  was  precarious.  But  it  was  probably  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  south  portal  was,  however,  un- 
doubtedly executed  by  Romanesque  sculptors. 

The  drive  from  Pontorson  towards  Dol  was 
magnificent  in  scenery  but  slow  as  to  speed.  Her 
"  ecorchiires  legeres  " —  as  M.  Thiriot  (or  was  it 
M.  Blanchet?)  had  called  two  wounds  on  her 
flanks, —  seemed  to  bother  Bergere,  and  she  inter- 


62  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

fered  somewhat.  One  o'clock  found  us  still  four 
or  five  kilometers  from  our  destination.  So  with 
trepidation,  but  immense  curiosity,  we  stopped  in 
the  hamlet  of  Baguer-Pican  at  our  first  roadside 
auberge,  designated  as  an  inn  by  the  conventional 
bunch  of  mistletoe  over  the  door  and  a  rambling 
sign,  "  Cafe  Lambert."  What  a  delightful  name, 
Baguer-Pican  1  And  to  think  that,  in  the  United 
States,  it  would  probably  have  been  Jonestown  or 
Smithville  I  The  voice  which  answered  our 
shouted  request  for  food  sounded  rather  gruff  as  it 
replied  that  there  were  only  eggs  to  be  had.  But 
what  a  cheerful  reception  from  the  old  lady,  apple- 
cheeked  and  smiling,  when  we  entered!  She  was 
dressed  in  rusty  black  and  her  head  was  neatly 
covered  with  a  colored  handkerchief  —  to  keep 
her  cap  fresh,  she  apologized.  A  drunken  old 
fellow  was  seated  In  the  estaminet,  so  she  ushered 
us  into  the  family  living-  and  bed-room  and  went 
to  prepare  our  luncheon.  At  last  we  were  in  a 
real  Breton  house,  old  but  scrupulously  clean, 
down  to  its  hard-packed  earthen  floor.  The  huge 
clock,  three  portly  beds  with  spotless  linen,  stiff 
canopies  and  enormous  feather  beds,  the  pig- 
shaped  hroche,  in  which  meat  could  be  cooked  on 
a  spit,  the  sacred  gim-cracks, —  everything,  in) 
fact,  was  full  of  charm,  and  we  hugged  ourselves 
in  glee  and  in  private. 

Then  the  door  opened  and  the  girl-of-all-work, 


La  fille  de  Mere  Lambert. 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  65 

flushed  from  the  fire  and  laughing  happily,  brought 
in  the  lunch.  They  must  have  loved  us  at  first 
sight,  for  beside  the  promised  omelet,  there  were 
soup,  fresh  sausage,  and  peas  to  be  eaten  with 
great  pewter  spoons,  accompanied  by  hard-crusted 
bread  and  slices  from  a  dome  of  golden  butter. 
Simple,  to  be  sure,  but  all  of  the  freshest  and  best, 
and  given  as  generously  as  though  we  were  hon- 
ored guests.  Brittany  is  one  of  the  few  places 
in  a  sordid  world  where  people  seem  to  take  real 
pleasure  in  service  graciously  performed,  in  giving 
of  their  best  and  in  seeing  this  best  appreciated. 
Peas  were  followed  by  the  sensible  French  des- 
sert of  fresh  fruit;  but  the  good  old  soul,  for  our 
special  delectation,  had  dug  out  of  Heaven  only 
knows  where  a  dish  of  motheaten  cakes.  To  re- 
fuse them  would  have  been  ungracious,  but  we 
welcomed  the  coffee  afterwards.  To  this  latter, 
the  young  girl  who  waited  on  us  and  acted  as  ad- 
visor on  Breton  etiquette  — 'twas  she  who  had  ex- 
plained that  the  bread  was  to  be  eaten  with  the 
peas  —  Insisted  that  we  add  "  fine  "  (meaning,  of 
course,  in  the  vernacular,  jine  champagne). 
Then,  to  delight  my  masculine  taste,  she  produced 
a  bottle  of  treacly  curagoa,  which  I  was  obliged 
still  further  to  add  to  the  coffee.  All  of  which 
was  laid  on  a  solid  foundation  of  excellent  cider, — 
for  we  had  had  no  sip  of  water  since  leaving 
Rennes,  and  Brittany  is  a  thirsty  country! 


66  Brittany  with  Bergere 

After  dinner  we  took  the  family's  photograph, 
in  which,  at  Mere  Lambert's  whispered  request, 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  were  included — "So 
faithful  they've  been,  M'sieu,  for  twenty  years, 
and  it  would  give  them  such  pleasure." 

Happiness  is  seldom  long  separated  from  pain; 
pleasure  goes  hand  in  hand  with  pathos.  The 
old  lady  was  showing  us  her  vegetable  garden 
with  the  pride  of  ownership ;  contentment  was  writ- 
ten on  her  simple  face,  until  I  told  her  we  would 
send  her  the  photographs  if  they  came  out  well. 
She  gave  a  hurried,  scared  look  which  at  the  time 
I  did  not  understand.  Then  she  answered  in  a 
strained  voice  that  "  we  were  all  that  there  is  of 
kind,"  and  the  subject  dropped.  The  smile  van- 
ished from  her  lips  and  she  spoke  in  monosyllables. 
Finally,  at  the  end  of  a  noticeable  pause,  she  asked 
with  averted  face,  "  Do  they  cost  very  much,  the 
photographs?"  Then  we  knew,  and  when  we 
explained  that  they  were  gifts  she  beamed  once 
more.  The  poor  old  woman  had  thought  us  ped- 
dlers, and  her  fear  of  a  few  centimes'  expense  was 
but  the  dread  of  the  very  poor  of  useless  outlay. 
It  was  a  lesson  never  to  be  forgotten. 

One  reads  in  books  of  such  expressions  as 
*'  Dame  "  and  '^  sacre  nom  de  Dieu/'  but  to  me  at 
least  they  had  always  sounded  artificial.  Yet 
here  was  this  Innocent  old  woman  punctuating 
every  sentence  with  the  name  of  Our  Lady  and 


Do  they  cost  very  much, 
the  photographs? 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  69 

using  oaths  which,  in  English,  would  have  crisped 
even  my  indifferent  hair  with  horror.  Again  a 
matter  of  geography. 

On  arriving  at  Dol  we  asked  a  cavalry  officer  as 
to  hotels  and  he  suggested  Au  Buffet  de  la  Gare. 
This  sounded  prosaic,  so  we  relied  on  our  own 
initiative  —  later  regretted  —  and  engaged  rooms 
at  the  Hotel  Grand'  Maison.  No  sooner  had  we 
entered  than  a  shower  fell,  but  as  in  half  an  hour 
the  sky  was  smiling  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
we  went  in  search  of  the  great  Menhir  du  Champ- 
Dolent,  which  lies  about  a  mile  out  of  the  town. 
When  nearby,  we  asked  directions  of  a  woman 
pushing  a  cart  of  cherries.  The  information  she 
gave  gladly,  and  also  a  handful  of  her  fruit  and 
a  detailed  account  of  an  automobile  accident  that 
had  occurred  on  the  very  spot  where  we  were 
standing,  with  the  dramatic  climax  that  one  of  the 
injured  had  died  in  her  arms.  The  little  girl 
helping  to  push  the  cart  offered  to  guide  us;  I 
suppose  we  looked  harmless,  for  the  mother  con- 
sented and  departed  on  her  way  to  Dol.  Ob- 
livious of  all  property  rights,  the  child  led  us 
through  the  ripe  wheat,  relating  the  while  at 
lightning  speed  how  the  stone  had  been  dropped 
by  the  devil,  who  got  too  old  to  carry  it  —  or 
maybe  it  was  the  stone  which  got  too  old  to  be 
carried;  these  French  pronouns  are  so  confusing 
- —  and  explaining,  too,  that  she  had  on  her  old 


yo  Brittany  with  Bergere 

shoes  because  she  had  to  climb  the  cherry-tree, 
adding  that  she  was  eleven  years  old  and  had  a 
month's  vacation  from  school,  and  why  did 
Madame  wear  such  a  funny  hat? 

If  the  other  menhir  had  been  interesting,  this 
was  amazing.  Thirty  feet  high  it  stood,  with  a 
circumference  nearly  as  great,  and  it  is  asserted 
that  it  extends  over  twenty  feet  into  the  ground. 
The  presence  of  this  vast  stone  cigar  in  the  midst 
of  a  bowlderless  region  was  inexplicable;  I  would 
even  have  been  satisfied  with  Marie's  explanation 
—  could  I  have  understood  it.  The  wooden  cruci- 
fix which  crowned  it  in  all  the  photographs  was 
gone,  leaving  the  monolith  in  its  original,  druidical 
appearance,  except  for  the  golden  fields  which 
surrounded  its  drab  base. 

The  same  band  we  had  heard  at  Pontorson  — 
or  its  twin-brother  —  appeared  on  our  return  to 
Dol,  and  with  it  a  considerable  battery  of  blue- 
clad  artillery.  Horses  were  being  shod  all  over 
the  sidewalks,  and  the  petits  soldats  seemed  to 
swarm  from  every  house.  Decima  offered  the 
practical  suggestion  that  they  were  probably  on 
the  way  to  the  maneuvers  of  the  Fete  Nationale. 
As  this  reminded  me  that  the  present  day  was  the 
'*  glorious  Fourth,"  I  immediately  haled  her  to  a 
cafe  for  a  "  safe  and  sane  "  celebration  and  a  silent 
toast  to  our  flag.     So  much  for  our  maneuvers. 

The  Grand'  Maison  was  not  a  success.     On 


Le  Mont  Saint-Michel  71 

estampe  les  gens  la,  for  they  charged  us  first  class 
prices  for  second  class  rooms  and  third  class  food. 
I  regretted  our  contempt  of  the  cavalryman's  ad- 
vice. Madame  was  civilly  impertinent  and  ob- 
viously unwashed.  Further,  a  young  drummer 
who  spoke  some  English  —  the  first  specimen  since 
we  left  Paris,  and  mightily  welcome  it  was,  for 
all  its  cockney  accent  and  its  "Oh,  I  zayl", 
'*  Oh,  vera  nize,  awvully  pleazant," —  insisted 
after  dinner  on  sketching  out  the  rest  of  our  trip, 
giving  me  the  names  of  commercial  hotels  where 
we  could  be  very  comfortable  if  we  came  de  sa 
part.  Bogrand  was  his  name,  and  he  would  have 
killed  our  little  horse  with  the  day's  marches  of 
forty  or  fifty  miles  coolly  mapped  out  for  us. 
And,  as  might  be  expected,  his  idea  of  an  inter- 
esting place  was  a  modern  summer  resort  with 
casino  and  plage.  Bed-time  finally  brought  relief. 
The  town  was  quite  old  in  parts,  with  mediaeval 
maisons  a  porche;  and  the  cathedral,  Gothic,  with 
sculptured  portico  of  Sainte  Magloire,  would  have 
charmed  us  had  it  been  in  Hede  or  Antrain  or 
even  Baguer-Pican.  But  the  thought  of  the  un- 
kempt, shifty-eyed  woman  at  the  hotel  hardened 
our  hearts  against  magic  of  the  past,  and  we  drove 
away  without  regret,  after  a  walk  round  the  old 
ramparts.  To  such  an  extent  does  one's  bodily 
comfort  interfere  with  one's  aesthetic  appreciation ! 


VIII 
The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream 

THERE  are  two  roads  from  Dol  to  Saint- 
Malo;  one  directly  to  the  northwest,  the 
other,  the  route  nationale,  strikes  northward 
through  the  Marais  de  Dol  to  the  Channel  and 
then  skirts  the  Baie  de  Cancale  for  a  matter  of  six 
or  eight  miles.  We  chose  the  more  circuitous, 
and  soon  the  smell  of  the  sea  filled  our  nostrils 
once  more.  The  stiff  sea  breeze  whipping  at 
Bergere's  mane  made  a  lap-robe  very  welcome  as 
we  turned  and  drove  quietly  within  a  few  rods  of 
the  damp  sands  that  reached  out  to  the  low  tide. 
Mile  after  mile  stretched  the  unbroken  sables, 
only  a  distant  murmuring  betraying  the  presence 
of  the  "  far-resounding  sea  "  itself.  At  intervals 
along  the  roadside,  white-armed  windmills  moved 
silently.  And  here  and  there  fishers'  hamlets 
crowded  close  to  the  smooth  road. 

At  one  of  these  villages,  St.  Benoit  des  Ondes, 
we  stopped  for  luncheon;  Decima  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  the  name.  The  Cafe  des  Voy- 
ageurs  was  only  across  the  street  from  high  water 
mark;  but  when  we  arrived,  the  sea  was  already 
two  miles  out  and  still  rapidly  receding!     It  was 

72 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     73 

an  unpretentious  establishment,  sandwiched  be- 
tween a  butcher's  and  a  baker's,  and  boasted  no 
loge  a  cheval;  so  Bergere  was  tied  to  a  ring  In  the 
wall,  and  a  deaf  old  man  brought  her  a  feeding 
trough,  in  which  all  the  chickens  of  the  vicinity 
promptly  roosted.  We,  also,  had  lunch  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  the  tablecloth,  likewise,  had  nearly 
to  be  tied  to  the  wall  to  keep  it  from  blowing 
away.  After  the  meal,  in  hopes  of  getting  a 
photograph  of  the  fishermen  at  work,  we  walked 
out  to  sea  until  the  little  inn  was  almost  lost  to 
sight  and  Bergere  was  merely  a  brown  speck  In 
the  hazy  distance.  But  nary  fisher  did  we  see, 
nor  anything  that  resembled  an  ocean,  and  we 
turned  back  in  disgust,  our  boots  covered  with  wet 
clay. 

As  we  stood  before  the  door  of  the  cafe  chat- 
ting with  our  bonneted  hostess,  there  was  the 
guttural  blast  of  an  automobile;  and  a  moment 
later  who  should  glide  by  over  the  perfect  French 
road  but  The  Most  Charming  Man  in  the  World! 
He  gave  a  casual  glance  in  our  direction,  but  no 
sign  of  recognition  crossed  his  face.  I  can 
scarcely  blame  him :  stylish  we  certainly  were  not. 
Decima  was  clad  in  homespun,  with  the  little  white 
hat  that  Marie  had  thought  so  funny  pulled  down 
about  her  ears;  I  in  Scotch  tweed,  innocent  of 
pressing  since  we  left  Paris,  and,  being  my  one 
suit,  destined  not  to  be  pressed  until  our  return  to 


74  Brittany  with  Bergere 

trunks  In  the  capital.  A  disreputable  felt  hat 
clung  tenaciously  to  my  head,  and  a  budding  mus- 
tache was  at  its  most  unattractive  stage.  Both  of 
us  were  covered  with  dust  accumulated  since  morn- 
ing, and  our  sunburnt  skin  was  peeling  from  crim- 
son noses.  No,  there  was  no  feeling  of  bitterness 
in  our  hearts  that  he  should  fail  to  recognize  us; 
only  a  great  pity  for  him  and  for  all  other  travelers 
who  can  —  and  consequently  do  —  travel  by 
motor  and  miss  the  simple  joy  of  the  open  road, 
the  association  with  the  people,  the  quiet  content- 
ment of  Hede  or  Antrain  —  or  St.  Benoit  des 
Ondes.  As  for  us,  we  reveled  in  our  simplicity; 
to  hire  a  horse,  to  provide  for  that  same  horse; 
to  house  ourselves  comfortably  and  sleep  again 
the  sleep  of  childhood;  to  live  on  the  fat  of  the 
fair  land  —  to  do  this,  and  at  the  same  time  to  see 
and  touch  intimately  the  life  of  a  foreign  country, 
all  at  an  expense  of  fifteen  francs  a  day  —  who 
would  not  glory  in  it?  And  whenever  we  had  to 
pay  more  than  a  franc  and  a  half  for  the  best 
room  in  the  house,  such  a  hotel  merited  displeas- 
ure as  unwarrantedly  raising  the  daily  cost  of  liv- 
ing —  and  we  would  seek  elsewhere.  And  the 
"  elsewhere "  usually  served  better  food  more 
agreeably  than  the  more  pretentious  hostelry. 
Nor  was  the  least  blessing  of  smaller  inns  the  re- 
lief from  the  worry  and  annoyance  of  tipping  half 
a  dozen  worthless  domestics  at  the  end  of  a  brief 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     75 

stay.  Yet  this  rule  and  its  average  we  deemed  it 
safer  to  waive  in  larger  towns  —  and  even  so  we 
often  regretted  it. 

Bergere  looked  enormously  fat  after  dinner  — 
and  small  wonder,  seeing  that  they  always  gave 
her  the  same  rations  as  their  draught-horses;  but 
she  seemed  very  happy  and  marched  very  well  to 
Saint-Malo,  a  town  with  little  attraction  for  us. 
Probably  we  were  wrong,  for  our  guide  book  said 
it  was  "  une  des  villes  les  plus  frequentees  de  la 
France."  But  this  was  the  very  reason  we  did 
not  like  it ;  for  a  place  where  "  accourent  en  ete 
line  foule  de  haigneurs  et  de  touristes  "  was  not 
exactly  what  we  were  in  search  of,  M.  Bogrand  to 
the  contrary.  The  ramparts  were  of  course  cap- 
tivating, with  a  view  over  the  water,  now  turned 
opalescent  in  the  rays  of  an  afternoon  sun.  The 
cathedral,  too,  was  an  interesting  mixture  of 
styles,  the  nave  looking  as  though  formed  of  two 
churches  placed  end  to  end.  The  oldest  portions 
were  twelfth  century  Romanesque,  but  the  greater 
part  was  flamboyant  Gothic. 

True  to  the  rule's  exception  already  mentioned, 
we  felt  obliged  to  go  to  a  large  hotel  in  this 
metropolis  of  twelve  thousand  inhabitants.  (I 
may  admit,  also,  that  the  thought  of  a  hot  bath 
was  irresistible.)  It  was  the  Hotel  de  I'Univers, 
new  and  shiny,  and  had  it  been  in  fact  what  it 
claimed  to  be  in  name,  we  could  not  have  felt  more 


76  Brittany  with  Bergere 

out  of  place  in  our  travel-stained  clothing  under 
the  supercilious  gaze  of  the  female  at  the  office 
and  her  supercilious  satellites.  We  slunk  away 
to  a  little  cafe  for  dinner,  and  from  a  corner 
watched  the  "  foiile  de  toiiristes  "  pass  and  repass 
like  the  colors  in  a  kaleidoscope.  I  had  never 
expected  to  rejoice  in  Americans,  as  such,  in  a 
foreign  country;  but  after  a  week  of  nothing  but 
French  we  beamed  on  two  fellow-countrymen 
passing  in  the  street,  and  strained  our  ears  to 
hear  some  words  of  English  —  if  only  American 
English! 

At  Saint-Malo  I  learned  that  environment  in- 
fluences another  matter  beside  etiquette  and  the 
relative  profanity  of  certain  words  —  that  is  to 
say,  curiosity.  I  could  hardly  have  conceived  a 
more  sober,  unassuming  attire  than  ours;  dusty 
we  may  have  looked,  but  dirt  is  international. 
Yet  we  were  stared  at  as  though  we  were  ptero- 
dactyls. But  a  long-haired  creature  in  peg-top 
corduroy  trousers  and  velveteen  jacket,  leading  a 
fox  by  a  string,  seemed  to  excite  not  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  most  rustic  observer.  He  was 
French  and  one  of  them;  we  were  foreigners,  out- 
casts, axiomatically  queer.  But  if  for  nothing 
else,  I  shall  remember  Saint  Malo  for  the  joy 
of  that  bath,  a  hot  bath,  un  grand  bain, —  O,  la  laf 

Early  the  next  morning  we  climbed  into  our 
cart,  all  the  servants  of  the  hotel  watching  with 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     yj 

ill-concealed  scorn,  and  rattled  happily  to  the  dock 
whence  ran  the  little  steamers  to  Dinard.  We 
found,  too  late  to  change  our  plans,  that  Bergere 
was  terrified  at  the  rocking  boat,  the  strange 
noises,  the  smell  of  oil  and  hot  metal.  After 
tipping  every  human  being  within  sight,  we  finally 
got  her  unharnessed,  and  harnessed  once  more  at 
Dinard.  Then,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at 
this  famous  resort,  we  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  struck  into  the  real  country  again,  by  secluded 
roads  meandering  beside  the  Ranee,  hemmed  in 
now  and  then  by  the  stone  walls  of  a  village  street. 
Our  lunch  at  Miniac  was  spoiled  by  the  sight  of  a 
drunken  brute  —  I  hope  he  was  drunk  —  beating 
a  horse  on  the  nose  with  a  club  while  trying  to 
harness  him,  and  telling  all  the  neighbors  and  the 
priest  who  tried  to  interfere  how  "  mechant "  the 
horse  was.  Yet  the  people  as  a  rule  seem  gentle 
enough  with  their  animals.  When  the  great  carts 
pulled  by  tandems  of  two,  three,  or  even  four 
magnificent  stallions  would  creak  and  groan  up 
and  down  the  hills,  guided  only  by  the  voice  and 
the  deep,  throaty  "  B-r-r-r-r-r,"  there  was  often 
a  volley  of  good-humored  cursing,  and  invariably 
a  salvo  of  snaps  from  the  long  rawhides  that 
sounded  like  pistol  shots;  but  never  once  did  I 
see  the  lash  touch  the  patient  brutes.  In  fact, 
even  the  snapping  did  not  bother  them  a  whit; 
nor  was  it  meant  to,  for  the  driver  was  just  as 


78  Brittany  with  Bergere 

likely  to  crack  his  whip  when  stopping  as  when 
starting.  The  sonorous  rolling  sound  used  to 
direct  these  workhorses  struck  my  fancy  at  first 
hearing  and,  after  a  morning's  practice,  I  thought 
to  try  it  on  Bergere.  I  flattered  myself  proficient; 
but  we  nearly  ran  over  a  dog  in  consequence, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  Just  so  had  we 
been  unable  to  make  her  understand  the  conven- 
tional English  parlance  in  the  matter  of  driving. 
She  was  eminently  French  and  eminently  feminine. 

As  we  drove  on  again,  past  a  peasant  tanging 
his  bees,  heavy  clouds  gathered  and  we  had  the 
first  rain  while  on  the  road,  a  fine  record  consid- 
ering the  cheerful  prognostications  of  The  Most 
Charming  Man  in  the  World.  And  even  at  that, 
it  did  not  really  rain  till  we  reached  the  fasci- 
nating town  of  Dinan.  But  in  our  haste  to  avoid 
a  drenching,  we  broke  our  rule  and  went  to  the 
first  hotel  we  could  find. 

The  Hotel  de  Bretagne  was  nice  enough,  to  be 
sure,  but  still  a  real  hotel  with  electric  lights  and 
an  office,  and  as  such,  our  only  source  of  regret  in 
Dinan. 

Some  words  are  as  magic,  empowered  to  con- 
jure up  potent  memories  —  of  a  pungent  smell, 
of  twilight  reflected  in  a  rippled  pond,  of  strains 
of  haunting  music.  Such  a  word  for  me  is  Dinan; 
its  very  mention  seems  to  draw  the  mist  of  Time 
from  my  eyes,  leaving  me  in  an  enchanted  land 


But  no  —  she  had  not 
visited  the  town  — 
the  hill  was  too 
steep. 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     8i 

of  crooked,  climbing  streets,  and  houses  of  for- 
gotten centuries  straggling  down  to  the  banks  of 
the  placid  Ranee.  We  had  dreaded  Dinan  be- 
cause it  sounded  so  much  like  the  fashionable 
Dinard;  but  truly  the  resemblance  goes  no  fur- 
ther. 

No  sooner  were  we  inextricably  settled  in  our 
quarters  at  the  largest  hotel  than  the  rain  ceased 
and  we  set  out  to  prowl,  with  the  ultimate  inten- 
tion of  dining  at  a  small  restaurant  by  the  water's 
edge,  spied  as  we  drove  into  town.  The  Grande- 
Rue  led  us  past  the  church  of  Saint-Malo,  late 
Gothic  and  almost  entirely  reconstructed,  to  the 
gate  of  the  Couvent  des  Cordeliers,  charmingly 
sculptured.  Then,  turning  into  the  precipitous 
Rue  du  Jerzual,  we  plunged  down  the  hill.  The 
street  was  lined  with  houses,  still  inhabited,  the 
majority  of  them  dating  from  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury; but  at  least  one  antedated  Columbus' 
well-known  transatlantic  voyage.  Down,  down 
through  the  Porte  Jerzual  into  the  Rue  du  Petit- 
Fort,  and  at  last  we  found  our  little  cafe,  close 
by  the  Gothic  bridge  that  spans  the  stream. 

There,  by  the  side  of  the  Ranee,  with  its  boats 
tied  up  for  the  night,  almost  under  shadow  of  the 
soaring  Viaduc  de  Lanvallay,  we  seated  ourselves 
in  the  calm  Breton  twilight  and  enjoyed  the  din- 
ner of  our  lives.  Everything  was  perfect  of  its 
kind,  but  the  haricots  verts  were  divine.     And  the 


82  Brittany  with  Bergere 

vin  de  Bergerac  was  better  than  any  champagne 

—  though  perhaps  this  was  due  to  our  mental 
association  of  one  Cyrano,  fighter,  poet,  and  per- 
fect lover.  A  pretty  young  girl  waited  upon  us; 
she  was  Monsieur  Robert's  niece  (Robert  being 
the  proprietor)  on  a  visit  from  the  South,  she 
told  us;  but  no,  she  had  not  visited  the  town  — 
the  hill  was  too  steep !  How  long  had  she  been 
in  Dinan?  Oh,  only  a  matter  of  fifteen  days! 
After  Decima  had  surreptitiously  fed  all  the  starv- 
ing cats  and  dogs  in  the  neighborhood,  and  after 
Angelique  had  wished  us  a  smiling  au  revoir,  in 
answer  to  a  promise  to  return  on  the  morrow,  we 
crossed  the  old  bridge  and  passed  back  over  the 
viaduct  to  the  dimly  lighted  town  above. 

The  next  morning  we  sought  the  Chateau  of  the 
Duchesse  Anne  of  Brittany,  passing  on  the  way  a 
statue  of  the  ubiquitous  Du  Guesclin.  It  was  a 
fortress  of  the  fourteenth  century,  with  moss 
clinging  to  the  cracks  in  its  grim  keep,  and  it 
might  have  been  full  of  interest  could  we  have 
wandered  at  will.  But  to  be  dragged  by  a  bored 
concierge  through  a  heterogeneous  collection  of 
junk  called  a  musee  —  stuff  ranging  in  dusty  dis- 
order all  the  way  from  Greek  vases  to  photo- 
graphs of  the  fagade  of  the  cathedral  of  Amiens 

—  was  dully  monotonous.  Aside  from  the  heav- 
ily vaulted  rooms  of  the  chateau  itself,  the  only 
object  of  interest  was  the  original  works  of  the 


All  the  starving  cats 
and  dogs. 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     85 

horloge  of  Dinan,  made  in  1498. 

A  stroll  round  the  walls  brought  us  to  the  Tour 
Sainte-Catherine,  which  commands  a  magnificent 
view  of  the  valley  of  the  Ranee.  Thence  we 
scrambled  down  to  the  river  and,  having  ordered 
lunch  at  our  cafe  (for  we  felt  a  pioneer's  pride  of 
discovery),  we  set  out  to  take  a  few  pictures  of 
the  city,  from  the  top  of  the  hill  down  which  we 
had  driven  on  our  arrival.  But  the  day  was  warm 
and  the  slope  was  steep,  and  I  soon  relapsed  into 
ease  under  a  tree  while  Decima's  artistic  proclivi- 
ties led  her  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  back. 

As  we  sat  by  the  water-side,  lingering  after 
luncheon,  the  Sunday  crowds  streamed  by. 
Whole  families  sauntered  past,  bound  nowhere, 
doing  nothing,  but  enjoying  the  holiday  and  each 
other  in  the  lovable  way  of  France.  The  peas- 
ants with  wrinkled,  tanned  faces,  the  women  folk 
old  for  their  years,  their  shoulders  bowed  with 
work  no  woman  should  perform;  bare-legged  and 
booted  boys  of  fourteen;  shy,  curious  girls  —  all 
in  unaccustomed  finery  —  they  seemed  truly  a 
happy  throng.  Soon  the  "  sportsmen  "  appeared 
in  absurd  costumes,  and  several  ill-assorted  crews 
disappeared  precariously  down  the  river.  Then 
with  a  farewell  snapshot  of  Angelique,  and  with 
many  an  revoirs  and  adietix,  we  set  forth  to  climb 
the  Rue  du  Jerzual. 

The  £glise  Saint-Sauveur  in  its  older  parts  was 


86  Brittany  with  Bergere 

more  ancient  than  the  church  of  Saint-Malo  near 
the  hotel;  but  it  was  the  usual  extraordinary  mix- 
ture of  interesting  Romanesque  and  flamboyant 
Gothic.  The  old  part  of  the  fagade  was  note- 
worthy for  its  sculpture;  but  the  most  interesting 
thing  in  the  church  —  indeed,  in  almost  the  whole 
of  this  quaint  town  —  was  a  granite  block  in  the 
north  transept.  On  it  was  carved  in  sprawling, 
ill-formed  Gothic  characters  the  following  inscrip- 
tion : 


Beneath  was  the  Constable's  coat-of-arms,  an 
eagle  with  double  head  and  outspread  wings.  The 
stone  was  supposed  to  contain  the  heart  of  the 


The  Gray  Sea  and  a  Calm  Stream     87 

warrior.  What  a  tribute  to  a  brave  man  — 
*'  whose  body  lies  with  those  of  the  kings  at  St. 
Denis  in  France."  Those  few  simple  words  told 
a  story  more  eloquent  than  volumes  of  panegyrics. 
Turning,  then,  from  this  dignity,  the  tawdri- 
ness  of  the  surroundings  struclc  home  with  re- 
doubled force.  Next  to  the  monument  was  an 
altar  to  Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secours;  in  place  of 
mediaeval  severity,  here  was  only  modern  tinsel. 
The  china  statues  seemed  to  speak  a  shallow  pre- 
tense; even  the  long  '*  candles  "  were  imitation  to 
within  a  few  inches  of  the  top.  I  do  not  criticise ; 
the  earnestness,  the  faith,  the  reverence,  which 
inspired  it  all  was  too  real;  but  there  was  pathos 
in  the  very  cheapness  that  spoke  so  eloquently 
of  biting  poverty  blindly  seeking  salvation  in  a 
tin  placard  inscribed  "  Merci."  And  everywhere 
troncs,  to  squeeze,  for  this  saint  or  that,  the  hard- 
earned  sous  from  a  tired  peasant  woman.  Doubt- 
less no  price  is  too  great  for  contentment  of  soul; 
but  why  must  it  be  bartered  for  the  pennies  of 
simple,  ignorant  folk?  How  can  men  reconcile 
the  ministry  of  God  with  trafficking  in  the  igno- 
rance and  superstition  of  untutored  peasants? 
The  picture  rose  before  my  mind  of  a  French- 
Canadian  village  in  the  Province  of  Quebec,  the 
home  of  poor  but  religious  people;  in  the  midst  of 
unpainted  houses  rose  a  great  cathedral,  for  all 
its  tin  roof,  built  by  the  labor  of  a  parish  that 


88  Brittany  with  Bergere 

could  ill  afford  so  unproductive  a  task.  But  not 
content  with  that,  the  priest  taxed  every  family 
a  yearly  pew-rent  of  a  hundred  dollars,  which 
drove  many  in  desperation  from  the  Church  and 
from  the  town.  Has  history  meant  nothing;  will 
Rome  never  learn? 


IX 

We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker 

THE  next  morning  dawned  with  lust  of  travel 
strong  upon  us;  Dinan,  with  all  its  charm, 
could  hold  us  no  longer  —  we  were  Alexanders 
with  innumerable  worlds  to  conquer  in  a  fort- 
night. Bergere,  when  consulted,  wagged  her  ap- 
pendage in  approval.  So  the  pilgrimage  recom- 
menced, and  we  turned  again  toward  the  north. 

The  road  had  lost  nothing  of  fascination. 
Hour  after  hour  slipped  by,  one  mile  joined  an- 
other in  the  ever-changing  distance,  and  still  the 
simple  scenes  never  palled.  Here  a  new  flower 
to  add  to  our  collection  under  the  driver's  seat; 
there  a  photograph  to  be  taken  —  always  with  a 
reward  to  Bergere's  patience  in  the  form  of  a 
handful  of  grass.  Each  inn  meant  a  chat  with 
the  country  people  over  a  cup  of  cider,  the  news 
perhaps  of  the  crops,  or  how  far  we  had  come,  or 
our  destination  —  it  mattered  little  what.  And 
everywhere  peace  and  contentment. 

Certain  parts  of  Brittany  are  noted  for  the  na- 
tive costumes.  We  had  chosen  not  to  visit  these 
parts,  so  I  should  not  complain.  Yet  in  a  coun- 
try full  of  beautiful  coloring,  the  perpetual  black 


90  Brittany  with  Bergere 

worn  by  men,  women,  and  children  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place.  To  be  sure,  it  is  cheapest 
and  many  could  afford  nothing  else;  for  them  I 
have  only  respect.  But  it  is  of  bourgeois  nature 
to  sicimp.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  use  so  hard  a 
word;  for  it  is  certainly  thrift  which  has  made  the 
nation  what  it  is.  But  the  wrangling,  the  hag- 
gling over  a  few  sous  on  every  occasion  grows 
distinctly  tiresome. 

Here  my  philosophizing  was  interrupted  by  an 
untimely  break  In  the  second-rate  harness  which 
M.  Thiriot  had  bestowed  upon  us.  A  town  was 
near,  Ploubalay  by  name;  and  here  we  spent  the 
night.  We  stopped  at  a  rose-covered  inn  on  the 
outslilrts  and  asked  for  rooms.  The  landlady 
seemed  immeasurably  surprised  at  our  request 
and  said  she  had  no  rooms.  Are  some  auberges 
intended  solely  for  "vend  a  manger"?  If  so, 
by  what  subtle  distinction  in  the  withered  mistle- 
toe over  the  door  is  one  to  divine  the  fact?  But 
the  Hotel  des  Voyageurs,  our  lady  continued  po- 
litely, could  give  us  very  comfortable  accommoda- 
tion. So  we  turned  regretfully  away,  as  though 
foreknowing  our  dissatisfaction. 

Comfortable  it  was,  but  no  more  could  be  said 
for  it.  The  "  help  "  seemed  astounded  at  our 
appearance,  and  we  were  obliged  to  carry  our 
luggage  from  the  cart  ourselves,  while  Madame, 
who  was  out,  took  so  long  to  return  that  we  spent 


We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker  91 

the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  waiting  for  her. 
The  stableman  was  the  redeeming  feature  of  her 
estabhshment,  showing  rare  intelligence  in  attend- 
ing to  the  repair  of  our  harness  and  in  ministering 
to  Bergere's  wants. 

But  it  was  not  so  much  the  hotel  as  the  town  it- 
self that  was  at  fault.  In  spite  of  its  Celtic  name, 
which  surely  should  have  brought  forth  something 
of  interest  — "  plou,"  meaning  *'  place  of  "  though 
what  "  balay  "  connotes  I  do  not  know  —  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  except  a  sign  warning  mo- 
torists of  the  desirability  of  ''  Attention  aux  En- 
fants."  So  we  strolled  beyond  the  municipal  con- 
fines, an  operation  requiring  not  more  than  two 
minutes,  and  lost  ourselves  in  grassy  lanes,  with 
no  sounds  to  disturb  the  evening  calm  other  than 
those  of  many  birds,  and  the  chime  of  a  far-off 
bell. 

The  hotel  dinner  was  surprisingly  good,  con- 
sidering the  general  unattractiveness  of  the  ap- 
pointments; but  the  table  manners  of  the  guests 
were  of  the  porcine  quality  found  at  Pontorson  — 
only  worse,  if  possible.  The  varying  scale  of 
noises  that  arose  from  the  table,  especially  during 
the  soup,  would  have  been  farcical  if  it  had  not 
been  revolting.  And,  mirabile  dictu,  these  were 
not  the  lowest  strata  of  society  by  any  means,  but 
burghers  of  the  middle  class;  indeed,  several 
times  I  was  present  when  small  farmers  were  tak- 


92  Brittany  with  Bergere 

ing  their  dinner  in  their  own  homes,  and  the  con- 
trast was  all  in  the  farmers'  favor.  However, 
there  was  certainly  a  material  advantage  in  the 
musical  method  of  eating  —  a  great  bowl  of 
steaming  cabbage  soup  could  be  made  to  vanish 
while  silent  consumers  had  made  no  appreciable 
headway. 

(N.  B.  Ploubalay,  by  the  way,  was  a  town 
which  the  drummer  at  Dol  had  characterized  as 
"  awvully  nize  "  !) 

The  weather  next  day  was  warm  but  delicious, 
and  the  little  horse  seemed  anxious  to  travel;  so 
when  we  found  Plancoet  merely  a  second  Plou- 
balay, we  pushed  on  farther  in  search  of  lunch. 
An  inn  outside  the  town  suited  our  taste,  but 
apparently  we  did  not  suit  the  inn's,  for  Madame 
said  sourly  that  she  had  nothing  to  give  us,  and 
sent  us  half  an  hour  beyond  to  Pleuven. 

And  lucky  we  were  that  she  did !  Not  only 
did  the  Veuve  Lefeuve  furnish  us  an  excellent  re- 
past, with  superior  cider  — cidre  houche,  bubbling 
at  fifty  centimes  a  bottle  like  the  best  champagne 
—  but  she  led  us  across  the  sunny  street  to  the 
cool  garden  which  she  warned  us  now  contained 
nothing  but  vegetables.  Very  pretty  it  proved, 
filled  with  many  roses  and  strawberries  and  other 
plants  not  usually  classed  as  vegetables.  At  sight 
of  which  we  would  invariably  exclaim,  "  Mais, 
Madame,  ce  n'est  pas  un  legume! "  whereupon 


The  awful  deed 
was  accomplished 


We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker  95 

she  chuckled  in  a  most  gratifying  manner.  After 
we  had  duly  admired  the  little  plot,  tended  so 
lovingly,  we  crossed  again  to  the  inn.  Our  re- 
quest to  take  her  photograph  delighted  the  old 
lady  enormously.  But  she  was  stricken  with  fear 
lest  the  neighbors  should  see,  so  we  stole  back  to 
the  walled  garden  and  locked  the  door  behind  us. 
And  after  the  awful  deed  was  accomplished,  she 
fairly  doubled  up  with  glee  at  the  thought  of  how 
cleverly  she  had  outwitted  them. 

Among  the  many  things  she  related  was  the 
story  of  the  nearby  Chateau  de  la  Hunaudaye, 
built  in  1378  by  a  certain  Pierre  de  Tournemine, 
and  long  since  partially  destroyed,  "  But  it  is 
necessary  that  you  see  the  ruins,  M'sieu  et 
Madame'^  she  added,  *'  for  they  are  very  beau- 
tiful." We  needed  little  urging  and  soon  reached 
the  inn  which  she  had  described  as  the  jumping-off 
place  where  we  must  leave  the  car.  Tying  Bergere 
to  the  wall,  we  disappeared  into  the  outskirts  of 
the  Foret  de  la  Hunaudaye.  Madame  Lefeuve 
had  intimated  that  the  road  was  not  good  enough 
for  driving;  and  it  was  well  we  took  the  hint  — 
which  was  a  mild  statement  of  the  case  —  for  we 
should  assuredly  have  killed  Bergere  and  our- 
selves to  boot,  in  the  first  half  mile.  It  was  merely 
a  rude  trail  through  the  woods,  with  great  ruts 
worn  into  the  hard-baked  mud  by  the  sturdy 
wheels    of    peasant-wagons  —  ruts    which    would 


96  Brittany  with  Bergere 

have  snapped  Bergere's  tiny  legs  like  match-sticks. 
Here  and  there  was  a  thatched  cottage,  the  ridge- 
pole lined  with  growing  grasses.  Once  we  passed 
several  clustered  in  a  hamlet  with  its  communal 
bread-oven  by  the  road-side.  On  we  toiled  over 
the  road  which  grew  every  minute  more  abom- 
inable, until  we  were  in  danger  of  drowning  in 
the  water  collected  in  the  ravine  into  which  the 
lane  had  gradually  sunk,  as  is  the  wont  of  neg- 
lected highways.  The  sun  beat  mercilessly  on  our 
tweed-clad  backs,  until  we  felt  that  the  "  deux 
petits  kilometres "  of  our  informant  had  been 
measured  with  seven  league  boots.  We  were  all 
but  ready  to  give  up  from  sheer  exhaustion  when 
—  we  arrived.  But  the  hour  of  toil  was  well 
spent. 

Five  towers  marked  the  corners  of  the  once 
mighty  fortress  and  chateau.  Worn,  shattered, 
covered  with  the  ivy  of  centuries,  they  still  had 
much  of  power  and  arrogance,  with  the  charm 
of  partial  ruin  and  of  silence.  A  sense  of  un- 
spoken awe  fell  upon  us  as  we  entered  the  yawn- 
ing portal,  through  whose  idle  slots  the  chains 
of  a  drawbridge  had  once  passed.  We  found 
ourselves  in  the  grass-grown  court;  everywhere 
gaps  in  the  useless  walls,  fast  decaying  and  cov- 
ered with  a  natural  tapestry  of  green,  spoke  of  an 
age  gone  never  to  return. 

Before  us  was  all  that  remained  of  the  grand 


We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker  97 

staircase  —  a  few  stone  steps,  beautifully  carved 
in  Renaissance  st^^le,  now  leading  nowhere.  For 
all  superstructure  was  wanting  except  in  one  of  the 
towers  where  wound  a  precarious  stairway,  giv- 
ing dizzy  glimpses  into  the  hollow  shell  whose 
carved  fireplaces  clung  to  the  walls  many  feet  above 
the  ground. 

The  fascination  of  the  place  sank  into  our  souls 
and  held  us  as  though  enchanted.  Here  was  no 
droning  guide  to  break  the  spell.  Long  we  wan- 
dered in  the  vast  enclosure,  until  the  lengthening 
shadows  bade  us  hurry.  Then  we  passed  through 
the  silent  gate  once  more  and  descended  into  the 
moat,  overgrown  with  trees,  bracken  and  heather, 
and  up  again  to  the  edge  of  a  swampy  pool  where 
frogs  were  croaking  rustily.  Here  a  woman  was 
pounding  with  a  rock  a  mass  of  clothes  soaked  in 
the  filthy  water,  under  the  misguided  notion  that 
she  was  acting  en  blanchisseuse.  She  told  us  the 
story  of  the  chateau  all  over  again,  adding  that 
it  was  very  old  — "  older  even  than  I  am,  M'sieu," 
—  and  cackled  sardonically  at  her  grim  jest.  We 
left  her  still  "  washing  "  and  struggled  back  over 
the  villainous  road  until  finally  we  reached  Ber- 
gere,  placidly  regarding  the  wall  to  which  she  was 
hitched. 

Although  it  was  not  yet  six  o'clock,  the  small 
farmer  and  his  wife  (who  kept  the  tavern  to 
eke  out  a  slender  income)   were  already  at  their 


98  Brittany  with  Bergere 

simple  evening  meal.  It  was  pleasant  to  rest  in 
the  cool  cottage  and  talk  to  them,  as  we  refreshed 
ourselves  with  cups  of  golden  cider.  Our  delight 
was  immense  at  finding  the  man  of  the  house  a 
real  "  nut-cracker  " —  such  was  Decima's  appel- 
lation for  the  old-fashioned  peasant,  derived  from 
a  small  casse-noisette  bought  in  Saint-Malo,  and 
carved  in  the  shape  of  a  typical  Breton  of  the  old 
school.  He  was  a  quiet,  well-built  fellow  with  a 
steady  gaze  and  the  "  mutton-chop  "  whiskers  al- 
ready demodes  with  the  Gallicizing  of  Brittany. 
And  his  resemblance  to  the  little  wooden  figure 
in  this  instance  justified  Decima's  sobriquet. 

Bergere  traveled  at  her  best  pace  after  the  en- 
forced rest.  The  road  passed  first  through  the 
"  Forest  "  of  La  Hunaudaye  and  then  slipped  into 
characteristic  French  farm-land,  intensively  culti- 
vated and  taking  on  additional  beauty  from  its 
evident  usefulness.  In  comparison  with  the  miles 
of  timber-land  in  certain  of  our  western  states, 
the  term  forest  applied  to  a  few  hundred  acres 
of  carefully  cut  woods  strikes  one  as  humorous. 
Gradually,  however,  a  change,  unsensed  at  first, 
stole  over  the  landscape.  The  houses  became 
more  scattered;  here  and  there  was  an  untilled 
field.  Suddenly  we  found  ourselves  driving 
through  an  uninhabited,  barren  moor.  One  could 
not  explain  it;  it  seemed  hard  to  realize  that  there 
could  be  any  land  in  France  where  there  would 


Another  nutcracker,  by 
the  way! 


We  Meet  a  Nut-Cracker  lOi 

not  be  an  attempt,  at  any  rate,  to  make  some- 
thing grow.  Was  the  place  haunted,  accursed? 
The  utter  dreariness,  the  intense  loneHness  — 
not  a  human  being  was  in  sight  —  a  faint  chill 
that  seemed  to  have  settled  about  us,  all  lent 
too  much  color  to  the  supposition.  Profoundly 
I  regretted  so  ridiculous  a  thought  —  yes,  it  must 
be  ridiculous.  I  tried  to  whistle.  The  result  was 
not  melodious.  I  glanced  at  Decima;  she  ap- 
peared rather  distrait.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I 
admonished  myself  angrily,  and  vented  my  spleen 
on  our  little  Bergere,  with  the  result  that  in  an- 
other ten  minutes  we  were  once  more  in  human 
country.  Then  I  turned  to  Decima :  "  Beastly, 
wasn't  it?  "  I  asked.  "  Yes,"  she  answered  with 
a  little  shiver;  then  with  feminine  logic,  "  but  you 
needn't  have  spanked  Bergere  quite  so  hard,  need 
you?" 

Out  of  loyalty  to  the  sex,  Bergere  took  that 
moment  to  go  lame,  thereby  proving  my  un- 
necessary cruelty.  So  she  limped  ostentatiously 
through  La  Poterie  —  a  village  appropriately 
given  up  to  the  making  of  earthenware;  and  it 
was  only  as  the  lights  were  beginning  to  twinkle 
in  the  windows  that  we  reached  Lamballe.  Here 
the  stableman  (another  nut-cracker,  by  the  wayl) 
declared  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her 
whatever;  and  I  went  to  bed  amply  justified  —  at 
least  in  my  own  masculine  mind. 


X 

Moncontour 

FOR  ten  days  we  had  searched  for  a  Pardon 
in  vain  —  the  nearest  seemed  always  sched- 
uled for  a  date  which  would  find  us  back  in  Amer- 
ica. But  we  had  never  despaired,  and  the  ques- 
tion recurred  over  coffee  and  rolls.  Our  gracious 
hostess  had  wished  us  good-morning  and  asked  if 
there  were  anything  we  desired.  Our  reply  was 
that  we  should  be  absolutely  happy  if  she  would 
tell  us  where  we  could  see  one  of  the  religious 
ceremonies  for  which  Brittany  is  famed.  "  But 
that  is  easy,"  she  answered.  "  The  Pardon  de 
Saint-Amateur  takes  place  here  in  four  days  — 
next  Sunday."  She  went  on  to  tell  us  how,  Sun- 
day being  the  fourteenth  of  July,  the  civil  and  re- 
ligious fetes  would  be  combined,  and  showered 
voluble  information  on  us  in  regard  to  decoration 
and  the  fireworks  that  would  honor  the  occasion. 
Which  latter  interested  us  not  a  whit.  But  our 
joy  was  so  great  at  having  actually  tracked  a  Par- 
don to  its  lair,  that  we  made  no  effort  to  check 
the  kindly  dame  but  heard  her  to  the  end,  gloat- 
ing silently.  To  think  that  we  should  see  un  vrai 
Pardon!     It  was  perfectly  true  that  it  was  not  an 


Moncontour  103 

important  one;  probably  there  would  be  no  pecu- 
liarly Breton  costume;  possibly  it  would  be  spoiled 
by  combination  with  the  French  fourth-of-July  — 
no  matter,  it  would  be  a  Pardon. 

But  a  change  was  necessary  in  our  plans.  We 
could  not  afford  four  days  in  Lamballe;  we  must 
go  elsewhere  and  return.  Madame  suggested 
that  we  visit  Moncontour.  I  am  still  grateful 
for  the  advice.  So  we  spent  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing exploring  Lamballe,  with  the  intention  of  leav- 
ing after  luncheon.  The  £glise  Saint-Jean  was 
not  of  interest,  except  for  its  bas-relief  of  St. 
Martin  which  the  guide  claimed  was  of  the  eighth 
century,  though  it  looks  too  excellent  for  a  period 
so  early,  or  so  late,  as  you  will.  But  Notre- 
Dame,  built  partially  on  the  site  of  a  mediaeval 
castle  which  had  topped  a  sharp  hill  by  the  town, 
was  quite  feudal  in  appearance,  with  its  great 
square  tower  rising  like  the  keep  of  a  staunch 
fortress.  Indeed,  as  originally  consecrated  in 
1220  by  St.  Guillaume  Pinchon,  Bishop  of  St. 
Brieuc,  it  had  been  but  the  chapel  of  the  chateau 
of  Lamballe.  We  climbed  the  summit-tower  — 
why  do  tourists  always  insist  on  getting  to  the 
top  of  everything?  —  by  means  of  a  stairway 
which  wound  tortuously  inside  a  pier,  and  were  not 
disappointed;  the  view  over  the  surrounding  plains 
was  glorious. 

Bergere  pretended  at  first  a   sore   foot.     But 


I04  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

when  she  saw  that  I  was  adamant,  she  relin- 
quished her  limp  with  a  resigned  air,  and  trotted 
happily  along  through  a  country  growing  ever 
more  beautiful  as  we  approached  the  rolling  hills 
to  the  westward.  About  five  o'clock  Moncon- 
tour  loomed  up,  a  village  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
hill  and  some  of  it  spilling  over  the  declivity.  We 
loved  it  from  the  moment  we  saw  its  Gothic-Ren- 
aissance-Spanish church  in  the  distance,  hovering 
above  fragments  of  old  fortifications. 

The  tiny  Hotel  du  Commerce  was  a  gem;  had 
it  not  been  for  the  inevitable  glamour  of  anything 
royal,  even  the  "  Shield  "  at  Hede,  for  all  the 
Duchesse  Anne,  must  have  been  eclipsed.  Its 
squat,  two-and-a-half  story  front  faced  the  vil- 
lage square  within  a  few  paces  of  the  facade  of 
the  figlise  Saint-Mathurin.  A  very  short,  very 
rotund  old  lady,  half-blind,  greeted  us  courteously 
and  told  us  the  best  rooms  in  the  house  were  at 
our  disposal  for  a  franc  and  a  half  each.  Then 
she  called  "  Marie !  "  and  a  frail  girl  with  a  sweet 
smile  and  a  pitiful,  hunched  back  came  forward 
and  would  have  carried  our  heaviest  valise  up- 
stairs. Again  the  Veuve  Launay  raised  her  voice, 
and  Georges  appeared  with  a  "  Bonjoiir,  M'sieu 
et  ''dame"  and  unharnessed  Bergere.  This  com- 
pleted, what  was  our  amazement  to  see  him  lead 
her  in  at  the  front  door!  Though  in  reality,  it 
was  into  a  sort  of  vestibule,  whence  led  a  passage 


Moncontour  105 

through  the  house  to  the  isolated  little  stable  be- 
hind. My  room,  small  in  proportion  to  the  rest 
of  the  house,  was  on  the  third  floor  —  there  were 
three  stories  in  the  back, —  and  overlooked  the  lit- 
tle yard,  where  I  could  see  Bergere  being  duti- 
fully scrubbed  till  her  brown  coat  gleamed  and 
her  fat  flanks  swelled  in  self-satisfied  fashion. 
Small  as  she  was,  she  looked  quite  out  of  scale  in 
the  Lilliputian  court-yard,  where  was  scarcely 
room  for  her  to  turn. 

There  was  still  some  time  before  dinner,  and 
we  descended  through  the  kitchen,  its  walls  lined 
with  a  dazzling  array  of  burnished  copper  pans 
and  kettles.  As  we  ended  up  again  at  the  inn  an 
hour  later,  there  was  a  load  of  aromatic  hay 
piled  in  the  street  before  the  front  door.  Georges 
was  perspiringly  engaged  in  hoisting  it  up  to  the 
attic!  The  children  of  the  village  —  bare-legged 
boys  and  curly-haired  girls,  the  happiest  youngsters 
we  had  yet  seen  —  were  rolling  in  the  fragrant 
grass  and  scattering  it  far  and  wide.  At  first 
Georges  treated  the  matter  humorously  and  chased 
them  good-naturedly  away.  But,  like  children 
big  and  little  the  world  over,  they  did  not  know 
when  to  stop,  and  in  exasperation  he  finally 
growled  out  a  ''  sacrrrre  nom  de  Di'u  "  and  made 
after  them  with  a  rawhide.  I  expected  to  see  a 
crowd  of  parents  called  to  the  rescue;  but  the  chil- 
dren took  their  punishment  in  good  part  and  the 


io6  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

last  of  the  hay  disappeared  through  the  attic 
window  without  further  interruption. 

I  have  tried  to  say  as  Httle  as  possible  about  the 
Breton  cooking,  lest  I  might  give  the  impression 
that  I  am  a  gourmand.  France  is  the  one  coun- 
try in  which  eating  is  apotheosized  for  me  from 
routine  into  ritual.  Further,  were  I  to  omit  men- 
tion of  this  particular  dinner,  I  should  be  guilty 
of  breaking  my  word.  For  when  I  told  the  Veuve 
Launay  it  was  the  best  meal  I  had  ever  eaten,  she 
answered  with  simple  eagerness  — "  You're  not 
just  saying  that  to  flatter  me,  M'sieii?  Then  you 
will  give  me  a  good  recommendation?"  There- 
fore I  repeat  my  assertion :  it  was  the  most  sav- 
ory dinner  I  have  ever  digested,  bar  none.  Again 
we  were  alone  with  only  the  poor  cripple  to  wait 
on  us.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  never  had  a 
square  meal  in  her  overworked,  underfed  life. 
But  she  smiled  happily,  as  though  to  see  us  appre- 
ciate the  dinner  were  her  greatest  joy.  Soup,  the 
tenderest  of  chickens,  the  most  delectable  veal  — 
though  it  took  Decima  half  an  hour  to  convince 
me  that  it  was  not  lamb  —  with  fried  potatoes 
such  as  would  have  delighted  the  soul  of  LucuUus, 
an  amazing  custard,  and  the  biggest,  sweetest 
raspberries  ever  beheld.  And  all  this  punctuated 
with  cups  of  wonderful  saffron  nectar  known  in 
common  parlance  as  cider. 

Driving  into  the  town,  we  had  remarked  a  lit- 


Moncontour  107 

tie  cafe  in  the  original  Flat  Iron  Building  —  a 
quaint  house,  built  on  a  triangular  plot  of  ground, 
about  two  feet  wide  at  the  narrow  end.  Dinner 
over,  we  retraced  our  steps,  ostensibly  for  du- 
bonnet.  When  we  arrived  at  the  tiny  hostelry 
we  found  a  pretty,  tired-looking  woman  and  a 
drunken  man,  who  we  feared  was  her  husband 
until  relieved  by  hearing  her  address  him  as 
"  vous."  He  begged  a  cigarette  of  me,  and  in- 
sisted that  I  light  it  for  him,  an  operation  requir- 
ing considerable  skill  in  his  unsteady,  semi-speech- 
less condition.  Then  he  must  needs  drink  my 
health,  clinking  his  glass  drunkenly  against  mine, 
which  attention  was  not  greatly  to  my  relish. 
We  feared  he  intended  to  attach  himself  to  us 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  but  fortunately  he 
soon  lurched  out,  to  the  evident  relief  of  Mme. 
Hamono. 

She  was  a  sweet,  refined  woman  with  the  bloom 
of  youthful  beauty  still  apparent  in  fresh  color 
and  fair  hair;  but  the  struggle  of  life  showed  itself 
in  the  tired  eyes;  already  her  face  was  marred 
by  the  loss  of  several  teeth.  She  seemed  to  pos- 
sess a  broader  view  of  the  outside  world  than 
most  of  the  simple  country  folk,  and  she  talked 
charmingly.  She  had  once  known  iine  Anglaise 
(we  were  of  course  British),  named  "  Mees 
Armstrong  "  who  had  taught  her  to  say  "  good 
morning,"  "  good  night,"  "  bad  boy  "  and  a  few 


io8  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

other  expressions  which  she  remembered  aston- 
ishingly well  and  pronounced  with  the  delicious 
accent  of  all  French  women  when  trying  to  over- 
come the  absurd  intricacies  of  our  tongue.  After 
she  had  obligingly  spoken  a  few  words  of  Breton 
for  us,  we  started  to  go.  But  to  our  surprise,  she 
refused  to  accept  any  pour-boire;  and  it  was  only 
after  persuasion  that  she  consented  to  take  a  few 
coppers  for  the  three  kiddies  whom  she  had  just 
sent  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  furnished  with  explicit  di- 
rections from  Madame,  the  Veuve  Launay,  we  set 
out  to  see  the  Chateau  Bellevue.  It  lies  a  kilo- 
meter or  so  from  the  town,  and  thence  we  intended 
to  go  across  country  via  the  old  Moulin  des  Pins 
to  the  ruins  of  the  Seigneurie  de  Vauclerc,  passing 
the  Chateau  des  Granges  on  the  way.  Bellevue 
we  found  a  modern  country  residence.  Des 
Granges  we  found  also  and,  though  it  was  evi- 
dently occupied,  we  were  able  to  approach  quite 
near  to  its  severe  fagade.  But  Vauclerc  seemed 
to  have  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  globe. 
After  tramping  for  several  miles  in  the  wrong 
direction  under  a  broiling  sun,  we  finally  retraced 
our  steps  and  found  the  Moulin,  a  deserted  mill 
on  the  edge  of  a  sighing  pine  wood.  Had  we 
known,  the  old  chapel  of  the  Seigneurie  was  only 
a  few  hundred  yards  distant;  but,  being  used  as  a 
farm  house,  it  naturally  did  not  reveal  itself  to  us 


Moncontour  109 

and  we  wandered  still  further  from  our  goal. 

At  last,  hot,  exhausted  but  determined,  we 
happened  upon  a  frowzy  mud  village.  I  called 
through  a  stable  door  to  someone  who  appeared 
to  be  talking  to  the  cows ;  and  out  came  a  genuine 
"  nut-cracker,"  very  old  and  minus  most  of  his 
front  teeth.  He  happened  to  be  going  by  Vau- 
clerc  he  said,  and  would  guide  us  himself,  for  we 
could  never  find  the  way  from  directions  —  cer- 
tainly a  truth.  Over  fields  and  through  tiny  lanes 
he  took  us,  panting  and  thirsty  with  the  heat  of  the 
noon-day  sun,  while  at  his  side  calmly  swung  the 
bottle  of  cider  for  which  our  mouths  were  water- 
ing. And  all  the  time  he  chatted  and  asked  count- 
less questions  in  his  naive,  peasant  way.  Some- 
thing seemed  wrong  with  our  comprehension  or 
the  expression  of  it;  for  as  often  as  we  said  "out  '* 
—  meaning  "  yes  "  in  the  French  tongue  and  in- 
tended to  convey  the  impression  that  we  under- 
stood —  the  old  fellow  would  repeat  from  the 
beginning  all  that  he  had  just  been  saying. 

But  he  was  a  genial  soul,  and  when  we  reached 
the  gate  of  the  Seigneurie, —  which,  with  the 
chapel-farm-house  comprised  the  entire  ruins, — 
he  told  us  that  it  had  been  built  by  the  devil  in  a 
single  night.  "  But  that's  only  a  legend,  you 
know,"  said  he  reassuringly,  and  went  on  to  say 
that  he  was  sure  the  devil  had  masons  to  help  him. 
"  You  have  masons  in  America  ?  "  he  added  doubt- 


no  Brittany  with  Bergere 

ingly  —  we  had  mentioned  whence  we  came. 
When  I  remarked,  to  make  conversation,  that 
America  was  pretty  far  from  France,  he  merely 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  answered,  ''  Ca  se 
pent;  I  was  never  there  myself."  Then  he 
marched  us  on  the  road  to  Moncontour  without 
giving  us  a  chance  to  photograph  the  ruins  we 
had  struggled  so  hard  to  see.  So  when  we  had 
shaken  hands  at  the  parting  of  our  ways,  I  thought 
to  make  up  for  the  loss  by  the  picture  of  our 
guide  himself.  But  the  same  inane  fear  of  pos- 
sible expense  overcame  him  as  had  seized  Mere 
Lambert;  and  in  this  case  no  arguments  were  con- 
vincing. Muttering  something  about  the  hay 
needing  him  and  his  face  not  being  pretty,  he 
scurried  down  the  road,  leaving  us  with  shamed 
feelings  as  though  we  had  insulted  him. 


XI 

We  Make  Several  Mistakes 

MISTAKES  will  happen  in  the  most 
Heaven-blest  of  trips  and  Loudeac  was 
such  a  mistake.  The  drive  thither  was  unevent- 
ful, and  the  town  itself  so  uninteresting  that  noth- 
ing had  ever  happened  there.  I  am  well  aware 
that  there  are  a  thousand  such  towns  in  my  own 
country,  but  one  does  not  expect  to  find  them  in 
Brittany.  The  hotel  was  wretched.  And  to  add 
to  our  depression,  in  the  morning  while  we  were 
trying  to  eat  our  breakfast  of  unclean  butter  and 
bitter  coffee  at  a  dirty  table  on  the  sidewalk  and 
only  awaiting  Bergere's  pleasure  in  order  to  shake 
the  dust  of  Loudeac  from  our  feet,  a  most  pitiful 
procession  wound  down  the  dusty  street.  It  was 
a  child's  funeral.  At  the  head  of  the  long  line 
walked  the  father,  hat  in  hand,  and  under  his 
arm  the  small  white  coffin.  The  only  compensa- 
tion in  the  pathetic  poverty  was  the  great  crowd 
of  people,  reverently  following  the  little  body  to 
its  last  abode. 

Having  got  the  mail  —  our  one  compensation 
for  Loudeac  —  we  gladly  turned  Bergere's  head 
again  towards   Moncontour.     At  Plougenast  we 


1 1 2  Brittany  with  Bergere 

stopped  for  luncheon  at  an  inn  where  we  had  al- 
ready scraped  acquaintance  with  the  landlady. 
Hers  was  a  very  modest  establishment,  and  while 
she  was  cooking  a  savory  omelette  on  the  great 
hearth,  Decima  and  I  fell  to  unharnessing  Ber- 
gere. After  considerable  labor  and  much  trepi- 
dation lest  she  run  away,  we  led  her  into  the  wine 
cellar  which  acted  as  stable  and  tied  her  with  a 
bit  of  rope  to  a  stanchion  —  which  she  subse- 
quently pulled  up  by  the  roots !  Then,  filled  with 
appreciation  of  our  own  virtue,  we  went  to  lunch- 
eon, leaving  Bergere  to  hers. 

Mme.  Hamo  was  an  excellent  cuisiniere  and  a 
conversationalist  to  boot.  Though  her  chief  in- 
terest lay  in  culinary  art,  the  details  of  which 
probably  appealed  to  Decima  more  than  to  me, 
she  could  ask  countless  questions  —  and  sensible 
ones,  too  —  about  England.  And  I  fear  we  must 
have  appeared  sadly  ignorant  in  regard  to  "  our 
own  country."  The  interrogations  brought  out 
many  contrasts  between  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the 
French  ideas  of  contentment.  How  many  work- 
men, American  or  English,  would  work  without 
complaint  and  actually  save  money,  earning  three 
francs  for  a  hard,  twelve-hour  day?  Finally  the 
baby  —  the  apple  of  the  mother's  eye  and  the 
never  failing  topic  of  conversation  when  others 
lacked  —  was  roused  for  admiration.  At  the  end 
I  was  obliged  to  kiss  the  brat,  while  Decima  as- 


/  was  obliged  to  kiss 
the  brat. 


We  Make  Several  Mistakes  115 

sumed  a  far-away  expression  and  escaped  scot 
free! 

It  seemed  like  home  to  be  in  Moncontour  once 
more,  to  climb  again  to  the  little  rooms,  to  sit  in 
the  same  stiff  chairs  with  Marie  to  serve  us.  All 
unbeknownst  to  me,  Decima  had  bought  her  a 
trinket,  and  how  the  poor  creature's  eyes  spoke 
as  she  tried  to  express  her  gratitude ! 

Dinner  over,  we  strolled  down  hill  for  a  chat 
with  our  friend  Mme.  Hamono,  buying  a  few 
sweets  for  the  children  on  the  way.  She  seemed 
glad  to  see  us  and  was  vastly  amazed  to  learn  that 
English  and  "  American  "  are  the  same  language. 
But  a  pleasant  evening  was  marred,  as  the  poor 
woman  refused  to  accept  pay  for  our  bocks  *'  be- 
cause we  had  been  so  nice  to  the  little  ones." 

Early  the  next  morning  we  set  forth  in  a  pour- 
ing rain  to  visit  the  Chapel  of  Notre-Dame  du 
Haut,  situated  on  top  of  a  hill  some  distance  from 
the  town,  and  reached  only  by  a  steep  wood-path. 
The  farmer  who  was  the  custodian  of  the  keys 
gladly  lent  them  to  us  —  huge  iron  affairs  they 
were  —  and  we  explored  the  sanctuary  undis- 
turbed. It  was  small  and  crude  and  quite  de- 
serted except  for  a  row  of  wooden  saints.  Each 
of  the  seven  was  supposed  to  be  able  to  cure  cer- 
tain maladies,  which  occult  powers  the  quaint  fig- 
ures advertised  in  naive  manner.  But  in  a  coun- 
try  where   the   pour-boire   reigns   supreme,    even 


Il6  Brittany  'with  Bergere 

saints  will  not  work  without  compensation ;  so  be- 
neath the  shelf  on  which  they  perched  was  a  tronc 
with  seven  slots  in  it,  each  labeled  with  a  name 
corresponding  to  one  of  the  figures.  But  I  fear 
the  Bretons  of  the  locality  do  not  receive  the  in- 
dividual treatment  for  which  they  pay.  We,  be- 
ing incredulous  foreigners,  tested  the  tronc  to  find 
that,  instead  of  being  divided  into  seven  compart- 
ments —  a  proper  arrangement  if  each  saint  was 
to  receive  his  due  share  of  the  tips  —  there  was 
merely  a  large  box  into  which  all  the  pennies  fell 
in  a  promiscuous  heap,  regardless  of  the  saint  for 
whom  they  were  intended. 

Without  even  waiting  for  luncheon,  we  started 
for  Lamballe,  still  in  continuous  downpour. 
Furthermore,  we  must  needs  try  to  visit  the 
Chateau  de  La  Touche-Trebry  on  the  way.  The 
Veuve  Launay  had  not  been  verv'  explicit;  she  had 
merely  said,  "  Take  the  first  road  to  the  right," 
and  we  took  it.  though  it  looked  narrow  and  un- 
promising. However,  we  drove  persistently  on 
over  a  road  growing  ever  more  rocky  and  steep. 
Almost  before  I  realized  it,  we  were  face  to  face 
with  a  sunken  boulder  which  completely  blocked 
the  way.  To  stand  on  the  precipitous  hillside 
was  impossible.  The  cart  began  to  slip  slowly 
backwards.  Bergere's  hoofs  scraping  frantically 
over  the  smooth  stone.  Just  as  I  was  about  to 
jump  out  and  hold  her  head  to  prevent  the  death 


JVe  Make  Several  Mistakes  117 

of  all  three  of  us,  she  gave  a  wild  lurch  and  I 
pitched  out  into  the  road.  A  horrible  vision  of 
steel-clad  hoofs  and  viciously  revolving  red  wheels, 
the  grinding  of  wood  and  metal  against  cold 
stone  chilled  my  blood.  Then  darkness  seemed 
to  fall  over  me. 

My  next  sensation  was  a  great  surprise  at  find- 
ing myself,  a  crumpled  heap,  in  a  pool  of  muddy 
water.  Aside  from  a  sh^tly  dazed  feeling,  I 
was  my  normal  self;  why  should  I  be  sitting  thus, 
soaked  with  rain,  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  coun- 
try road?  I  must  get  up  or  ruin  my  only  suit 
of  clothes.  But  how  did  I  come  there  ?  How  — 
then  suddenly  it  all  rushed  into  my  mind,  leaving 
me  in  an  agonv  of  fear.  Decimal  —  where  was 
she? 

"My  God.  she  can't  have  been  killed  I  "  I 
groaned:  then,  "But  where  is  she?  Where's 
Bergere?  Where's  the  cart?  There  must  be 
something  left  I  "  I  staggered  to  my  feet.  By 
a  miracle  no  bones  were  broken.  I  lurched 
blindly  down  the  hill.  At  the  bottom  there  was 
no  sign  of  Decima.  Mingled  feelings  of  relief 
and  anxiety  filled  my  heart.  "  Decima !  Dec- 
ima !  "  I  called  futilely,  breaking  into  a  painful 
run.  On.  on  until  I  reeled  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  my  shouts  turned  to  sobs.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  wild  pounding  of  hoofs,  and  a  familiar 
voice  sounded  in  the  distance  urging  on  a  horse. 


Il8  Brittany  with  Bergere 

Another  moment  and  the  cart  dashed  round  a 
corner,  Decima  leaning  forward  and  flogging  the 
tired  beast  into  a  gallop.  At  sight  of  me  she 
sawed  madly  at  the  reins  and  ground  on  the  brake. 
"Peter!"  she  called,  her  voice  quavering  piti- 
fully, "  Thank  God  you're  safe!  "  and  she  slipped 
insensible  to  the  floor  of  the  cart. 

As  we  drove  the  trembling,  sweat-covered  ani- 
mal quietly  back  to  Moncontour,  I  heard  the  story 

—  how  Bergere  had  miraculously  turned  the  cart 
in  the  narrow  lane  without  trampling  me  under 
foot;  how  she  had  plunged  down  the  hill  and 
dashed  on  for  two  miles  at  breakneck  speed  with 
Decima  clinging  to  the  dashboard,  every  moment 
expecting  to  be  hurled  out;  how  finally  she  had 
been  controlled  and  turned  once  more  in  my  di- 
rection. "  The  rest  you  know,"  said  Decima,  al- 
ready perfectly  self-possessed.  I  did  indeed 
know  and  marveled  at  her  courage  and  coolness 

—  for  she  is  a  tiny  thing,  is  my  sister.  We  were 
very  silent  as  we  entered  Moncontour. 

The  exhilaration  which  follows  an  accident 
narrowly  missed  soon  passed  and  left  us  tired. 
But  by  the  time  our  clothes  were  dried  and  lunch- 
eon was  over,  youth  was  again  buoyant  and  we 
vowed  to  see  La  Touche-Trebry  or  die  in  the  at- 
tempt. The  weather  showed  no  indication  of 
clearing  —  indeed,  the  supply  of  moisture  in  Bre- 


We  Make  Several  Mistakes  121 

ton  clouds  seems  on  occasion  well  nigh  inexhaust- 
ible —  only  this  time  we  were  more  particular  in 
our  demands  for  information  as  to  the  route.  We 
arrived  wet  and  bedraggled.  Seeing  a  scaffolding 
which  betokened  alterations,  it  never  occurred  to 
me  that  the  family  who  owned  it  might  be  occu- 
pying the  chateau.  So  I  drove  brazenly  into  the 
court-yard  and  accosting  a  woman  at  the  win- 
dow, asked  if  one  might  visiter  the  building.  She 
replied  very  politely  that  one  might  indeed,  and 
soon  a  servant  appeared  as  guide.  Whereupon 
we  learned  that  the  lady  whom  I  had  hailed  was 
none  other  than  the  chatelaine  herself;  and  that 
she  would  be  glad  to  have  us  take  tea  with  her 
after  we  had  seen  her  domain.  We  declined 
shamefacedly,  aghast  at  our  effrontery  and  the 
courtesy  with  which  the  lady  had  met  it. 

The  chateau  was  a  curious  mixture  of  fortified 
manor  and  modern  residence  and  farm-house. 
But  the  pleasure  of  the  visit  was  alloyed  with  the 
realization  that  we  were  unbidden  guests.  We 
hurried  away  through  the  wooded  park,  on 
towards  Lamballe.  Drenched  with  rain,  yet  per- 
fectly content,  we  must  have  been  a  curious  sight 
as  we  drove  along  the  highway,  deserted  of  other 
vehicles.  I  cannot  wonder  that  two  little  girls 
mistook  us  for  devils  and  crossed  themselves  sur- 
reptitiously ! 

Finally  we  arrived  at  Lamballe  and  had  to  be- 


122  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

take  ourselves  to  bed  during  the  clothes  drying 
process.  And  a  wedding  party,  tramping  through 
muddy  streets  to  the  tune  of  an  accordion,  was  the 
last  sound  we  heard  that  night  as  we  slipped  into 
exhausted  slumber.  Truly,  it  was  almost  as  pa- 
thetic as  that  other  procession  at  Loudeac. 


XII 

The  Pardon  of  Saint-Amateur 

THE  song  of  many  bells  apprised  us  of  the 
fact  that  the  day  of  the  Pardon,  the  day  to 
which  we  had  looked  forward  so  long,  was  at 
hand.  An  air  of  expectancy  seemed  to  hang  over 
the  little  town,  thronged  with  folk  from  every 
nearby  village,  keeping  the  crowds  strangely  quiet. 
Only  the  continuous  shuffle  of  heavy  shoes  and  the 
low  murmur  of  many  voices  betokened  the  unusual. 

The  Pardon  de  Saint-Amateur  took  place  at 
half  past  two  under  a  dull  sky  that  lent  additional 
solemnity  to  the  serious  scene.  There  were  no 
curious  costumes,  no  happy  music,  no  wealth  of 
color  —  only  a  certain  sabbatical  primness  and 
discomfort  in  the  black  coats  and  frocks.  Yet 
the  earnestness,  the  reverence,  the  faith  of  these 
silent  worshipers  impressed  me  as  I  have  rarely 
been  impressed  by  religious  ceremony. 

The  Hotel  de  France  looks  up  a  narrow  street 
which  slopes  gently  from  the  central  square  of 
Lamballe.  In  this  Place  Cornemuse,  outside  the 
£glise  Saint-Jean,  the  crowd  collected  for  the  pro- 
cession, which  was  to  form  there,  descend  the 
hill,  make  a  circuit  of  the  block  and  end  again 

123 


124  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

at  the  Church  for  service.  Eagerly  we  hung  from 
the  windows  (in  company  with  a  fox-terrier  named 
"Thom"),  watching  the  shifting  throng  —  a 
dark,  restless  sea,  dotted  here  and  there  with  the 
bird-like  caps  of  simple  country  women.  Then 
from  an  eddy  in  the  midst  broke  forth  a  thin  cur- 
rent: the  Pardon  had  begun. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  paced  the  village 
beadle,  or  something  very  much  resembling  such 
a  personage,  clearing  the  way  with  a  mighty  hal- 
berd for  a  silken  banner  bearing  the  words 
"  Sainte  Marie  Priez  Pour  Nous."  Behind, 
stretched  in  two  single  files  —  one  on  each  side 
of  the  street  —  the  men  and  women  who  had  come 
to  participate  in  the  ceremony.  Every  age  there 
was,  and  every  condition.  An  old  man  bent  with 
years  hobbled  slowly  behind  a  young  mother  car- 
rying her  sleeping  child  in  her  arms.  Farmer  and 
burgher,  peasant  girl  and  well-dressed  woman  of 
means,  rich  and  poor  —  all  were  united  in  a  com- 
mon faith.  Many  bore  wax  effigies  to  present 
at  the  church  —  effigies  of  an  arm,  a  head,  a 
foot,  in  plea  of  a  cure  or  in  recognition  of  past 
blessings  from  the  saint.  Here  an  old  paysanne, 
pitifully  lame,  struggled  along,  her  face  radiant 
with  calm  hope.  Many  are  the  sick  and  crip- 
pled in  the  long  files  that  round  the  corner  with 
solemn  step,  the  men  bare-headed,  the  women  with 
downcast  eyes,  all  with  unaffected  earnestness.     At 


Finally  came  the  Gymnastes. 


The  Pardon  of  Saint- Amateur        127 

intervals  between  the  rows  walked  a  white-robed 
priest,  the  furtive  air  of  professionalism  in  his 
piety  contrasting  unpleasantly  with  the  simplicity 
of  the  layman's  faith. 

There  was  a  break  in  the  long  files.  Then 
passed  the  orphans  —  meek  girls,  each  with  a  blue 
ribbon  round  her  neck.  More  ordinary  folk  fol- 
lowed, giving  way  in  turn  to  coarse-gowned  nuns. 
Still  more  lay-folk  and  then  came  a  little  knot  of 
priests,  preceding  the  most  sacred  part  of  the  fete 
—  a  precious  relic,  encased  in  a  glass  casket. 
One  priest  was  playing  a  dirge-like  melody  on  a 
deep-chested  French  horn.  The  others  chanted 
a  mournful  litany.  Behind  walked  two  peasants 
bearing  on  their  shoulders  the  casket,  their 
browned,  bearded  faces  standing  out  against  the 
pale,  shaven  countenances  of  the  clerics.  Again 
more  populace,  now  with  banners  —  of  the  roof- 
makers'  guild,  of  the  Masons,  of  other  secular 
organizations,  but  always  with  some  emblem  or 
motto  of  religion,  some  prayer  to  the  Virgin  em- 
blazoned on  them. 

Finally  came  the  gymnastes  —  boys  from  four- 
teen to  twenty,  clad  in  a  most  ridiculous  costume 
of  sky-blue,  half-sleeved  jerseys  and  bloomers, 
with  white  Tam-o'-Shanters  from  which  depended 
blue  tassels.  Over  each  scrawny  right  arm  was 
,  carried  a  dark  blue  reefer,  except  in  the  case  of 
those  in  the  front  ranks  who  formed  a  fife  and 


128  Brittany  with  Bergere 

drum  corps.  These  wore  their  jackets,  that  the 
vigorous  execution  of  their  music  might  be  unim- 
peded. To  an  Anglo-Saxon,  the  incongruity  of 
their  attire  was  ludicrous. 

Then  the  thin  stream  changed  once  more  into 
the  broad  sea  of  onlookers  —  a  sea  that  surged 
and  murmured  and  washed  against  the  sides  of 
the  narrow  street.  The  procession,  the  entire 
Pardon  except  for  the  service  in  the  crowded 
Church,  was  finished.  The  ceremony  had  been 
brief,  with  no  glamour,  no  elaborate  show.  Yet 
the  visitors  who  had  come  to  participate  must 
have  numbered  hundreds.  Here,  truly,  was  a 
people  to  whom  religion  was  vital. 

An  attempt  to  enter  the  Church  would  have 
been  futile.  Instead  we  strolled  through  the 
streets,  watching  the  gradual  transition  from  the 
solemnity  of  religious  service  to  the  festivity  of 
national  celebration.  At  a  photographer's  we 
stopped  to  inquire  after  films.  But  the  gentleman 
had  deserted  his  shop,  and  after  waiting  for  half 
an  hour  in  company  with  an  absurd  looking  gym- 
naste  —  who  was  smoking  a  ragged  cigarette  and 
appeared  much  in  need  of  a  bath  and  a  shave  — 
went  elsewhere  in  search.  The  druggist  to  whom 
we  applied  had  evidently  done  ample  justice  to 
the  Fete  Nationale.  He  regretted  politely  that 
he  had  no  films  of  the  size  we  desired,  but  at  our 
suggestion  that  we  might  find  them  in  Jugon  the 


The  Pardon  of  Saint- Amateur       129 

next  day,  the  implied  comparison  seemed  to  irri- 
tate him  considerably.  "  Jugon !  "  he  echoed 
loftily;  "  Jugon,  cfest  tin  tout  petit  trou!  "  and  he 
bowed  us  haughtily,  if  somewhat  unsteadily,  to  the 
door. 

In  the  evening  the  village  band  played  in  the 
public  square  in  honor  of  the  holiday.  The  place 
was  crowded  —  with  patriots,  we  confidently 
imagined,  mindful  of  the  Bastille,  jealous  of  the 
glory  of  the  Republic.  But  when  the  first  stir- 
ring strains  of  the  "Marseillaise"  fell  upon  the 
night  air,  not  a  hat  was  raised,  not  a  man  stood 
at  attention.  It  brought  to  mind  another  Four- 
teenth of  July,  a  number  of  years  before,  in 
Tours;  when  the  only  enthusiasm  displayed  was  a 
rather  caustic  humor  at  the  expense  of  an  obese 
general  who  tried  in  vain  to  scale  the  flanks  of  his 
horse.  We  left  in  disgust  and  returned  to  the 
hotel.  Here  we  found  a  Dutchman  who  shared 
our  sentiments.  Besides  his  own  unspeakable 
language,  he  spoke  wretched  English,  fair  French 
and  beautiful  German.  The  result  was  a  pleas- 
ant, if  somewhat  polyglot  evening,  spent  in  the 
discussion  of  patriotism. 


XIII 
A  Charming  Hole 

JUST  how  and  why  we  went  to  Jugon  I  am  un- 
certain. However,  that  is  an  unimportant  de- 
tail; suffice  it  that  we  got  there.  The  cynical 
pharmacist  at  Lamballe  had  characterized  Jugon 
as  a  "  tout  petit  trou  " ;  we  found  it  delightful. 
There  was  little  to  see  and  less  to  do  in  the  town 
itself;  in  so  far  it  compared  with  Loudeac  of  un- 
pleasant memory.  But  between  the  utter  monot- 
ony of  the  one  and  the  restful  charm  of  the  other 
there  was  an  immeasurable  gap. 

Doubtless  the  freshness,  the  hospitality  of  the 
inn,  its  quaint  estaminet,  and  its  delicious  meals 
helped  to  sharpen  the  contrast.  Like  its  name- 
sake at  Hede,  the  tiny  Hotel  de  I'ficu  was  linked 
with  the  name  of  the  Duchesse  Anne.  It  was 
once  a  convent  founded  by  her  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  her  castle;  and  on  the  great  slab  of  stone 
which  formed  the  kitchen  fireplace,  we  saw  her 
coat-of-arms.  Of  the  chateau  not  a  trace  re- 
mained; the  hill  which  it  had  crowned  was  now 
the  inn-keeper's  vegetable  garden. 

The  auherge  faced  the  village  square,  at  one 
end    of    which    was    the    market  —  a    building 

130 


A  Charming  Hole  131 

perched  on  an  open  arcade,  like  the  hroletti  of 
Lombardy.  Across  the  street  stood  the  Maison 
Sevoy,  which  must  have  been  almost  a  chateau 
Itself  in  its  day  —  A.  D.  161 1.  Now  it  was 
merely  a  farmhouse,  the  hall  converted  into  a 
stable,  the  vast  hearth  filled  with  hay.  And  in 
another  corner  of  the  square  was  the  village  pump, 
placarded  with  a  warning  that  this  indispensable 
engine  was  open  from  six  to  eight  in  the  morning 
and  four  to  six  in  the  evening.  As  the  inhabi- 
tants seemed  to  prefer  the  former  hour,  there  was 
but  little  sleeping  in  the  Hotel  de  I'Ecu  after  six 
in  the  morning.     For  the  pump  was  old  and  rusty. 

As  for  the  remaining  objects  of  interest  in 
Jugon,  they  consisted  in  the  thirteenth  century 
tower  in  the  midst  of  an  otherwise  modern  church 
and  —  the  pond !  The  Etang  de  Jugon  was  four 
kilometers  long  and  the  pride  of  the  town.  I  fear 
our  lack  of  enthusiasm  for  so  tremendous  an  in- 
land body  of  water  must  have  been  a  disappoint- 
ment to  the  citizens. 

Jugon  was  the  starting  point  of  a  little  excur- 
sion, long  to  be  remembered.  Leaving  our  lug- 
gage at  the  inn,  we  set  forth  to  find  the  ruins  of 
the  Cistercian  Abbey  of  Boquen,  which  was  situ- 
ated just  inside  the  two-thousand-acre  forest  of 
the  same  name.  Had  we  known  what  was  in  store 
for  us,  I  doubt  if  we  should  have  had  the  courage 
to  make  the  attempt. 


132  Brittany  with  Bergere 

The  road  led  past  the  Chateau  de  la  Moussaye. 
The  present  edifice  was  of  the  most  uninteresting 
period  of  French  architecture,  but  four  towers 
and  a  few  crenelated  walls  of  an  older  structure 
were  still  standing.  And  in  the  courtyard  lin- 
gered several  broken  supports  and  a  complete 
arch,  ivy-covered,  suggestive  of  other  days.  From 
the  old  chateau,  a  subterranean  passage  once  ran 
fourteen  kilometers  to  the  castle  in  Broons,  now 
destroyed,  where  Du  Guesclin  was  born. 

The  ruined  abbey  was  not  marked  on  our  map, 
and  the  Guide  Joanne  warned  us  that  we  ought  to 
have  either  a  detailed  plan  or  a  competent  guide. 
Nevertheless,  we  were  obstinately  determined  on 
finding  it  for  ourselves.  Stopping  at  a  rough  inn 
to  make  inquiries,  we  were  told  that  it  was  only 
two  kilometers  distant  and  easily  found.  With- 
out even  knowing  the  name  of  the  hamlet  in  which 
the  auherge  was  situated  we  confidingly  left 
Bergere  in  the  hands  of  a  strange  man,  and  struck 
into  the  woods.  At  the  outset  a  woman  offered 
her  services  as  guide,  vouchsafing  the  information 
that  we  could  never  find  the  ruins  unless  we  knew 
the  way.  But  we  disliked  her  evil  face  even  more 
than  the  thought  of  getting  lost.  And  besides, 
her  assumption  of  helplessness  on  our  part  was 
irritating.  So  we  rashly  refused.  Whereupon 
she  followed  us  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  peering 
at  us  from  behind  a  fringe  of  trees  as  we  wallowed 


A  Charming  Hole  135 

in  mud  up  to  our  shoe-tops  in  one  of  the  gullies 
which  seem  usually  to  form  the  Breton  country 
lane.  However,  when  she  saw  that  we  continued 
to  pay  no  attention  to  her,  she  disappeared  sud- 
denly, leaving  us  very  much  alone. 

Two  kilometers,  forsooth !  It  could  not  have 
been  less  than  five,  and  it  seemed  fifty.  The  road 
was  fully  as  atrocious  as  that  to  the  Chateau  de  la 
Hunaudaye,  if  not  even  more  so,  while  the  sun 
was  hotter  than  I  could  have  believed  possible  in 
the  temperate  zone.  But  far  worse  than  either  of 
these  difficulties  was  the  problem  of  finding  the 
way.  Countless  paths  ran  off  in  every  direction, 
any  of  which  might  have  been  the  right  one, 
and  how  were  we  to  know?  Naturally,  being  in 
a  "  forest,"  there  was  no  one  of  whom  we  might 
inquire. 

The  miracle  was  that  we  ever  got  there.  Poor 
Decima  was  nearly  exhausted,  but  would  not  admit 
it.  I  was  in  almost  as  bad  a  plight  myself,  and 
did  admit  it  with  frequent  groans.  But  the  im- 
possible does  happen  on  occasion;  in  every  blind 
choice  of  paths  which  we  made,  we  struck  the 
right  one.  Suddenly  we  emerged  from  the  woods 
and  found  ourselves  on  an  open  hill-top,  looking 
down  on  the  ruins  below. 

Quite  roofless  they  were,  with  the  branches  of 
giant  trees  protruding  above  ivy-draped  walls.  A 
great  arcade  was  walled  up,  and  the  encroaching 


136  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

ground  had  risen  half  way  to  the  Romanesque 
capitals.  Only  the  choir  of  the  church  was  of 
the  fourteenth  century;  the  rest  of  the  building 
had  been  founded  in  1137  by  a  lord  of  Dinan. 
Several  farmhouses  nestled  about  the  ruins,  look- 
ing suspiciously  like  adaptations  of  chapel,  chap- 
ter-house or  what  not.  Into  one  of  these  houses 
we  were  invited  by  a  kindly  old  woman  who  was 
grinding  fresh  pig  into  most  unattractive-looking 
sausage,  and  who  revived  us  for  the  return  trip 
with  some  welcome  cider.  We  had  little  time  to 
spare,  for  it  had  taken  us  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
find  the  abbey,  instead  of  the  "  little  half  hour  " 
which  our  friend  at  th""  inn  had  cheerfully  calcu- 
lated, and  it  was  still  far  to  drive  before  din- 
ner. Then  back  again  we  labored  over  the  same 
fearful  roads,  till  at  last  the  inn  hove  in  sight 
once  more.  While  Bergere  was  being  harnessed, 
we  had  a  heated  argument  with  three  countrymen 
—  one  of  whom  addressed  each  of  us  as  "  tuf  " — 
as  to  the  distance  we  had  covered  and  none  would 
admit  that  it  was  more  than  two  kilometers  each 
way.     I  cling  to  the  theory  of  a  possible  fifty. 

A  thunder  storm  kept  us  awake  during  the  first 
half  of  the  night,  and  the  village  pump  achieved 
the  same  end  during  the  second  half.  Conse- 
quently, when  we  hobbled  down  to  breakfast,  stiff 
in  every  joint  from  our  exertions  of  the  day  be- 
fore,  we   simultaneously  proposed  a   day's   rest. 


A  Charming  Hole  137 

It  was  deliciously  pleasant  to  do  nothing,  for 
there  was  no  feeling  of  guilt  at  missing  anything: 
there  was  nothing  to  miss.  So  we  sat  in  the 
estaminet  and  wrote  letters;  and  sat  under  the 
awning  in  front  of  the  inn  and  watched  the  sleepy 
little  town.  There  goes  the  priest  on  his  rounds, 
1  Bible  tucked  under  his  arm.  Down  the  hill, 
past  the  Maison  Sevoy,  comes  an  old  cripple 
pulled  in  a  little  cart  at  a  rattling  pace  by  two 
panting  dogs.  Across  the  way,  a  team  stops  at 
the  smithy  amid  a  volley  of  snaps  from  the  long 
whip.  And  everywhere  the  women  are  working 
as  hard  as  the  men,  trudging  along  the  dusty  street 
under  great  loads  of  faggots,  or  weighed  down 
with  buckets  of  water.  The  extraordinary  thing 
is  that  many  of  them  should  be  so  well  dressed  — 
far  better  than  at  Lamballe,  which  despises  this 
town  as  an  *'  entirely  small  hole."  Their  blouses 
fit  (so  Decima  says)  and,  wonder  of  wonders, 
their  skirts  are  hobble ! 

That  night  there  was  no  thunder,  and  the  pump 
seemed  strangely  quiet.  It  was  all  that  was  neces- 
sary to  complete  our  day  of  rest. 


XIV 

The  Ejection  of  Jean  Marie  Pihuit 

(A   drama   in  one   act) 
Scene :     Estaminet  de  I' Hotel  de  I' Ecu,  Jugon. 
Time :     Half  past  six  of  a  July  afternoon. 

Dramatis  Person^: 
M.  SoQUET,  patron  of  the  "  Shield." 

MmE.   SOQULi". 

Her  Sister,  the  maid-of-all-work. 
An  Officer  of  the  Octroi. 
Decima,  an  American  lady. 
Peter,  her  brother. 
Jean  Marie  Pihuit,  an  inebriate. 

COLLARLESS  PERSONAGE. 

Postman,  Villagers,  etc. 

At  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  all  the  clients  of  the 
hotel  are  engaged  in  drinking  and  smoking  ex- 
cept Decima,  who  is  drinking  and  writing. 

DECIMA 

[Suddenly,  in  English.^      Is  someone  looking 
over  my  shoulder? 

PETER 

[Looking  up  and  discovering  Inebriate  in  straw 
138 


The  Ejection  of  Jean  Marie  Pihuit      139 

hat  and  rough  clothes  swaying  slightly  hack  of 
Decima  and  trying  vainly  to  read  her  writing. '\ 
Why,  so  there  is!      \_Glares  at  Inebriate.^ 

M.    SOQUET 

\_Noticing  Inebriate,  who  pays  no  attention  to 
glares.]      Here,  now  —  that  does  not  go. 

[Inebriate  bangs  into  table.  Decima  and  Peter 
glare  in  concert. '\ 

M.    SOQUET 

Get  out  of  here.     I  don't  want  you. 

INEBRIATE 

But  why?     I  paid  for  a  drink  yesterday. 

M.    SOQUET 

But  what  a  drink  —  only  a  little  glass ! 

INEBRIATE 

I  paid  for  a  glass  yesterday  and  I'll  pay  again 
to-day. 

M.    SOQUET 

Never  mind  that,  I  don't  want  your  money. 
Get  out. 

INEBRIATE 

[^Sitting  down.]     Jamais. 

M.    SOQUET 
\^Red  in  the  face  but  rather  timidly.]      Go  on 


140  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

—  I  don't  want  you  here. 

INEBRIATE 
Jamais!      [Bangs  table  with  his  fist;  the  glasses 
dance  dangerously.     All  conversation  ceases  and 
all  interest  centers  in  Inebriate. ^^ 

MME.    SOQUET 
[Very  decidedly  —  she  is  the  man  of  the  house- 
hold.']     Allez  —  filez. 

INEBRIATE 

Jamais. 

OFFICER    OF    OCTROI 

[Important    looking    functionary    with    great 
mustache  and  stomach.]      Get  along,  you. 

INEBRIATE 
Jamais. 

OFFICER   OF   OCTROI 
[Rising  and  laying  hand  on  Inebriate' s  arm.] 
You'd  better  for  your  own  good. 

INEBRIATE 

Jamais. 

OFFICER   OF   OCTROI 
[Lifting   Inebriate   and  pushing   him   gently.] 
I've  spoken  it  once;  I  won't  speak  It  again. 

INEBRIATE 

[Folding  arms  in  Napoleonic  attitude.]     But 
no  —  it  is  not  right. 


The  Ejection  of  Jean  Marie  Pihuit     141 

COLLARLESS    PERSONAGE 

[From  distant  corner.]  Get  along  thou  I 
What  dost  thou  wish  to  do?  If  the  gentleman 
does  not  wish  to  serve  thee,  there  is  nothing  to 
do.  Think  thou !  —  suppose  it  were  in  thine  own 
house?     Fa-t-en,  alors! 

INEBRIATE 

[Weakening.]     Mais  — 

OFFICER   OF    OCTROI 
[Seeing     opportunity     for     heroic     bravery.] 
Name  of  a  pipe,  march! 

INEBRIATE 
[Sadly.]  Eh  h'en,  I  go.  Adi'u,  adi'u,  adi'u. 
[Shakes  hands  with  Officer  of  Octroi,  Collarless 
Personage,  M.  Soquet,  Mine.  Soquet,  etc.,  and 
exit,  sorrowfully,  to  tell  history  of  his  life  to 
crowd  on  sidetvalk.  Officer  of  Octroi  walks  im- 
portantly back  to  table,  sits  down,  puffs  cigarette 
—  a  present  from  admiring  postman  —  tells  how 
it  was  done,  finishes  drink,  shakes  hands  with  all 
present,  removes  hat,  exit.  Exeunt  omnes. 
Curtain.] 


XV 

The  Little  Sisters 

THERE  are  apparently  numberless  hostelries 
In  Brittany  known  as  the  Hotel  de  France. 
Mme.  Legault  keeps  a  very  nice  one  at  Broons,  a 
morning's  drive  from  Jugon.  She  furnished  us 
an  excellent  lunch  which,  in  the  absence  of  the 
maid-of-all-work,  was  served  by  her  pretty  but 
somewhat  haughty  daughter.  When  she  found 
that  we  were  bound  for  Caulnes,  she  strongly  ad- 
vised that  we  go  via  Yvignac,  so  as  to  see  a  cha- 
teau there  and  pay  a  visit  to  her  sister-in-law,  who 
likewise  kept  an  inn.  While  we  were  waiting  for 
Bergere,  we  stepped  across  the  square  to  see  the 
church,  which  Madame  assured  us  was  "  of  a 
beautiful  style,"  and  found  it  without  any  style  at 
all.  This  rather  discouraged  us,  but  still  we  de- 
cided to  essay  Yvignac. 

On  arriving  chez  Legault  at  this  place,  we  pre- 
sented our  credentials  so  to  speak,  and  were  most 
hospitably  received.  After  inquiring  about  the 
health  of  her  relatives  in  Broons,  Madame  started 
us  off  on  the  road  to  the  Chateau  d'Yvignac  with 
her  daughter  Victorine,  aged  eleven,  perched  on 
Decima's  lap  to  act  as  guide.     The  road  was  of 

142 


The  Little  Sisters  143 

the  ravine  type,  and  Victorine  was  so  shy  that  she 
let  us  drive  several  hundred  unnecessary  yards  be- 
fore she  could  summon  sufficient  courage  to  tell  us 
that  we  had  passed  the  lane  which  led  to  our 
destination.  And  even  when  she  had  screwed  up 
her  courage  to  the  point  of  advising  us  of  our  mis- 
take, she  was  so  afflicted  with  a  cold  in  her  little 
tow  head,  that  it  took  us  several  hundred  yards 
more  to  discover  what  she  was  trying  to  say. 

The  chateau  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
nothing  more  than  a  big  farmhouse.  To  be  sure, 
it  had  been  begun  just  before  the  Revolution  as  a 
handsome  residence;  but  after  the  turmoil  sub- 
sided, it  had  never  been  completed  as  originally 
intended;  most  of  the  windows  had  been  blocked 
up  and  rough  floors  hastily  added  to  enable  the 
house  to  serve  its  present  purpose.  We  climbed 
to  the  second  story  under  the  guidance  of  Vic- 
torine, where  the  keeper,  a  doting  mother,  re- 
galed us  for  half  an  hour  on  weak  cider  and 
stories  about  her  progeny  —  an  infant  called 
Madeleine  and  a  nine  year  old  boy  cursed  with 
the  name  of  John-Mary.  Finally  she  conde- 
scended to  show  us  the  chateau,  though  there 
proved  little  to  see.  Even  the  vaults,  which 
sounded  so  full  of  possibilities,  were  disappoint- 
ing; for  the  subterranean  passage  had  fallen  into 
bad  repair,  and  was  closed  to  curious  Anglo- 
Saxons  by  a  stout  wooden  door.     On  one  wall  of 


144  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

the  building,  however,  were  traces  of  an  older 
chateau,  and  a  short  distance  away  was  a  crum- 
bling, mossy  tower,  the  intervening  space  being 
marked  as  the  ancient  courtyard  by  scattered  cob- 
blestones half  hidden  in  the  earth. 

The  church  at  Yvignac  had  partly  escaped  the 
ravages  of  local  religious  enthusiasm,  though 
Mme.  Legault  informed  us  that  it  was  only  under 
compulsion  that  the  Inhabitants  refrained  from 
remodeling  the  entire  church.  That  being  the 
case,  it  is  a  pity  that  compulsion  isn't  more  preva- 
lent in  Brittany,  for  even  this  church  had  not 
been  wholly  unmolested.  However,  the  west  por- 
tal and  the  first  four  bays  of  the  nave  were  true 
Romanesque,  the  portly  columns  being  topped 
with  most  delightful  capitals.  The  tower,  though 
remade,  followed  the  twelfth  century  original,  and 
gave  a  very  striking  effect  as  it  rose  above  the 
entrance.  And  what  a  cunning  little  child's  seat 
and  prayer-stool  within  the  church ! 

At  Caulnes  the  chief  object  of  interest  was  a 
gypsy  van  encamped  across  the  way  from  the 
hotel.  It  seemed  to  contain  an  entire  family  in 
ease  and  comfort,  and  suggested  all  sorts  of  fasci- 
nating possibilities  for  a  future  trip.  But  this 
family  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a  duck,  which 
was  tethered  outside  the  wagon  and  began  making 
harsh  noises  at  half  past  four  in  the  morning. 
Furthermore,  the  breakfast  dishes  were  washed 


The  Little  Sisters  145 

In  the  family  tub;  which  cooled  somewhat  our 
ardor  for  that  mode  of  travel. 

Our  own  breakfast  over,  we  started  on  the  long 
drive  to  Hede,  sad  at  the  realization  that  this  was 
to  be  our  last  day  on  the  road.  It  had  all  gone 
inconceivably  fast;  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  the 
next  afternoon  we  must  be  In  Rennes,  worse  still, 
in  Paris.  But  If  It  was  the  final  day  of  our  little 
vacances,  we  were  at  least  resolved  that  it  should 
be  a  good  one.  So  we  purposed  seeing  two  groups 
of  Druldical  monuments  that  were  marked  on  the 
map  as  existing  between  Caulnes  and  Hede;  one 
group  we  would  see  In  the  morning,  the  other  in 
the  afternoon. 

But  even  the  most  laudable  plans  often  mis- 
carry. At  Gultte  we  stopped  to  purchase  infor- 
mation at  the  cost  of  two  ''  petroles  " —  as  we 
heard  a  fellow  traveler  jocularly  term  cognac  — 
and  the  lady,  while  willing,  was  Ignorant.  Fi- 
nally, after  consultation  with  several  neighbors, 
each  of  whom  offered  a  different  suggestion,  she 
told  us  to  drive  a  mile  or  so  further  to  an  Inn 
called  "  Paradise  "  and  that  there  they  would 
direct  us. 

Perhaps  we  weren't  up  to  celestial  standard. 
Whatever  the  cause,  an  old  fellow  with  exactly 
one  tooth  in  his  gnarled  head,  who  might  easily 
have  been  St.  Peter  himself,  "  met  us  at  the  gate  " 
and  —  turned    us    away.     His    excuse    was    that 


146  Brittany  with  Bergere 

there  was  no  one  at  home.  No  one  at  home  in 
Paradise!  The  idea  was  depressing,  if  not 
actually  preposterous.  However,  if  we  were  not 
acceptable,  we  must  give  in  gracefully;  I  thought 
with  real  sympathy  of  M.  Pihuit  at  Jugon.  So 
we  turned  sorrowfully  away,  in  further  search  of 
information,  and  ultimate  lunch. 

We  found  neither,  in  the  vicinity.  The  high- 
way crept  through  the  most  beautiful  scenery  we 
had  yet  seen  —  real  hills,  real  heather,  even  a  real 
valley  with  miniature  men  and  women  turning 
tiny  bundles  of  hay,  far  below  us.  But  never  an 
inn,  nor  sign  of  a  menhir. 

The  Continental  breakfast  seems  by  noon  rather 
inadequate  to  the  average  American.  Saint-Pern 
found  us  ravenous.  As  a  result,  when  we  were 
informed  that  we  must  go  back  the  other  side  of 
Guitte  to  find  any  monuments;  and  that,  the  map 
notwithstanding,  there  were  none  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Saint-Pern,  flesh  overcame  the  spirit. 
Luncheon  had  to  console  us  for  the  lost  Pierres 
Druidiques. 

Saint-Pern  is  the  seat  of  a  great  novitiate  of 
the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  The  old  custodian 
who  admitted  us  through  the  stout  gate  even 
claimed  that  it  was  the  Mother  House,  the  head 
of  the  order  throughout  all  Christendom.  Les 
Petites-Soeurs,  he  went  on,  were  at  that  moment 
there  making  their  divine  offices,  but  one  would 


The  Little  Sisters  147 

come  soon  to  conduct  us.  So  we  waited  under  the 
shade  of  a  tall,  cool  hedge,  and  I  furtively  smoked. 
The  Sabbath  calm,  the  warm  golden  sunlight,  were 
just  beginning  to  make  us  drowsy,  when  a  soft 
step  sounded  on  the  neat  gravel  path.  I  quickly 
trod  on  my  cigarette.  Round  the  corner  came  a 
frail,  sweet-faced  Sister,  clad  in  the  familiar  garb. 
I  uncovered  reverently;  they  do  a  great,  good 
work,  these  Little  Sisters. 

"  You  are  from  America,  are  you  not?  "  she 
asked  in  gentle,  perfect  English.  "  The  con- 
cierge told  us  that  there  were  two  strangers  here 
who  said  they  were  Americans,  and  the  Mother 
gave  me  permission  to  show  you  the  novitiate.  I 
served  two  years  in  Baltimore,"  she  added  simply, 
looking  at  us  directly  for  the  first  time.  "  Do 
you  know  it?  " 

I  could  only  gasp  amazedly.  Decima  an- 
swered, "  Why,  Baltimore  is  our  home.  Sister!  " 
Sister  Marthe  smiled  momentarily.  "  It  is  nice 
to  see  you.     I  was  very  happy  there." 

An  hour  or  more  we  wandered  through  the 
grounds,  chatting  quietly  with  the  Little  Sister, 
seeing  all  the  great  complex  organization,  learning 
many  things  that  it  is  well  for  skeptical  Protes- 
tants to  know.  The  vast,  shining  kitchen  where 
a  few  cook  for  the  many;  the  bare,  high-ceiled 
refectory;  the  broad,  fruitful  fields  tilled  by  the 
Sisters;  the  little  church,  the  beginning  and  end 


148  Brittany  with  Bergere 

of  their  simple  life  —  we  saw  it  all.  And  for 
every  year  passed  in  this  peaceful  atmosphere, 
there  must  be  many  spent  in  hard,  often  thankless, 
service  in  foreign  places.  Their  only  pleasure  is 
in  the  serving  of  others.  Truly  the  world  must 
be  a  better  place  because  of  the  Little  Sisters. 

A  bell  tolled  and  Sister  Marthe  bade  us  a  hur- 
ried farewell.  There  had  been  not  the  slightest 
question  of  our  faith;  nor  any  appeal  for  support. 
It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  slip  a  few  silver  pieces 
into  the  tronc  by  the  gate.  The  afternoon  had 
been  far  better  spent  than  if  we  had  seen  a  dozen 
menhirs. 

The  last  day  on  the  road  passed  all  too  rapidly 
—  the  last  day  of  the  magpies  and  poppies  and 
bees,  of  the  bright  sun  or  the  dull,  gray  mono- 
chrome that  had  grown  almost  equally  dear  to  us, 
of  the  fragrant  new-mown  hay;  the  last  day  of 
the  simple,  country  life  and  the  kindly,  unspoiled 
folk.  The  familiar  spire  of  the  little  church  at 
Hede  told  us  more  eloquently  than  any  words 
that  our  journey  was  almost  finished. 

The  hotel  was  exactly  as  we  had  left  it.  The 
rosy-cheeked  girl  was  just  as  cheerful  and  willing 
and  happy  as  before,  Madame  looked  quite  as 
tired.  Monsieur  had  lost  nothing  of  his  fondness 
for  cards  and  petrole;  even  our  rooms  were  identi- 
cal, unless  it  was  that  a  little  more  dust  had  col- 
lected  on  the  two  plaster  "  ornaments  "   in  my 


The  Little  Sisters  149 

nook  under  the  eaves.  Only  we  were  changed. 
Our  faces  wore  no  longer  the  paleness  of  those 
who  dwell  in  cities;  Brittany  had  made  us  anew. 
But  our  spirits  were  damped  by  the  approach  of 
the  end. 


XVI 
The  End  of  the  Road 

ON  top  of  our  regret  at  the  finish  of  our  little 
tour;  in  addition  to  our  sorrow  at  parting 
from  Bergere,  it  seemed  almost  too  much  that  the 
memory  of  our  first  love,  Hede,  should  be  marred 
by  perfidy.  Yet  such  is  Fate.  And  the  worst  of 
it  all  was  the  remorse  we  felt  at  leaving  so  bad 
an  impression  on  Bergere  just  at  the  end,  after  we 
had  pampered  her  and  seen  her  filled  to  burst- 
ing each  day  for  three  weeks. 

We  left  Hede  early  and  in  haste,  so  as  to  reach 
Rennes  in  time  for  luncheon.  Great  was  our 
wrath,  when  we  had  driven  the  curiously  weary 
little  animal  a  few  miles,  to  find  that  the  card- 
playing  scoundrel  at  the  inn  had  neither  watered 
her  nor  given  her  anything  to  eat  that  morning  — 
nay,  even  the  night  before,  so  far  as  we  knew. 
And  this  in  spite  of  unusually  generous  fees  for 
his  supposedly  good  care  of  her.  Though  we 
could  ill  afford  the  time,  we  stopped  at  the  first 
tavern  and  saw  that  she  had  a  square  meal  and  a 
large  bucket  of  water,  both  of  which  disappeared 
with  pitiful  rapidity.  "  Poor  little  mouse!  "  mur- 
mured Decima. 

150 


The  End  of  the  Road  151 

Our  only  consolation  in  giving  up  Bergere  had 
been  the  thought  that  she  would  fairly  trumpet 
with  glee  at  being  reunited  with  "  Thiriot  and  the 
'  boys,'  "  as  Decima  expressed  it.  When  she  not 
only  showed  no  signs  of  joy  at  the  sight  of  the 
Rue  de  Viarmes,  but  actually  turned  a  dejected 
brown  head  and  watched  us  plaintively  out  of 
sight  after  we  had  kissed  her  good-by  on  the  end 
of  her  velvety  nose,  our  hearts  were  nearly  broken. 
Decima  looked  as  though  she  wanted  to  cry,  and 
I  had  an  odd  lump  just  above  my  collar. 

"  They'll  work  her  to  death,  now  that  they  see 
she  is  so  plump,"  groaned  Decima  after  the  stable- 
man had  noted  her  condition  with  amazement. 
"  Yes,"  I  agreed;  "  and  I  know  she'll  never  get 
so  much  to  eat  again."  Now  that  I  come  to 
think  it  over  in  cold  blood,  it's  probably  just  as 
well  for  her  if  she  doesn't  1 

Late  that  night  we  were  in  Paris  once  more. 
The  frantic  struggle  to  see  many  friends  in  a 
scant  while,  the  opera,  the  Louvre  —  all  the  usual 
tourist  activities  in  Paris,  with  an  unusual  gala 
performance  at  the  Franqais,  where  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  company  who  were  not  acting  sat  in 
the  orchestra  to  watch  Mounet-Sully  take  the  lead- 
ing part  in  "  Horace  " —  and  then  three  days  later 
found  us  watching  France  grow  gray  in  the  misty 
haze  of  the  horizon. 

*'  Oh,    Peter,    our   holiday   is   over   and   she'll 


152  Brittany  with  Berg  ere 

never  have  another,"  sighed  Declma,  her  thoughts 
turning  to  a  small  brown  horse.  We  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  road. 


Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR    8'15?? 


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UNIVEltSITY  tF  CAUFORNU 

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LI           Brittany  with 
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